


Kink-/Whumptober 2019

by TheGreatLibraryFangirl (Mazeem)



Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Boot Worship, Consensual Non-Consent, Cousin Incest, Depression, Double Penetration, Drunk Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Leather Kink, Light Sadism, M/M, Masochist Niccolo Santi, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Oral Sex, PWP, Pneumonia, Porn With Feels, Rutting, Scars, Some Porn With Plot, Suicidal Thoughts, Threesome - F/M/M, Underage Character(s), Voyeurism, Whump, comfort kink, for characters who feature less prominently check out the ship tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-11-08 21:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20842424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazeem/pseuds/TheGreatLibraryFangirl
Summary: A messy combination of Kinktober prompts and Whumptober prompts. Maybe 22 in total? We'll see!Day 1: Shaky Hands, Wolfe/Santi (Whump)Day 2: Voyeurism, Anit, Jess/Katja (Kink)Day 3: Fever/Dehydration, Thomas/Jess (Whump)Day 8: Sadism, Wolfe/Santi (Kink)Day 13: Adrenaline, Wolfe/Santi (Whump/Kink)Day 15: Scars, All surviving main characters (Whump)Day 17: Boot Worship + Leather, Tom Rolleson (Troll)/Dario (Kink)Day 22: Hallucinations, Khalila, Wolfe/Santi (Whump)Day 23: Threesome, Thomas/Morgan/Jess (Kink)Day 24: Alpha/Beta/Omega, Khalila/Santi/Dario, (Kink)Day 28: Incest, Dario/Alvaro/Ramon





	1. Whump: Shaky Hands (Wolfe/Santi)

Santi has had a lot of very bad weeks in his life. Compared to several of them, this one’s not even been that bad. No-one’s tried to kill him, or imprison him, or to do so to anyone he loves.

Imprison being a particular thought process, right now.

Because instead of fearing for his life, he’s spent the week showing the Curia members, several ambassadors including that goddamned Santiago, and one or two other high-ranking Library officials around the place where Wolfe’s life was at risk for a year. Trying to make them truly understand what they had all been complicit in. 

Most of the time, he had the mental discipline to keep from imagining Wolfe on every piece of equipment, inside every cell. But today, the last, was Vargas, who’s known them both since the beginning. He could see that she was imagining it herself, everywhere that she looked. 

By the time Santi makes it back home, he’s tired enough to drop. He’d Translated home, for speed’s sake, and he feels like he left something vital behind in the trip. His very bones ache. 

* * *

The glows are still up high, and when he opens the door, it smells like coffee and Wolfe is looking at him over the top of his reading glasses. He’s wearing his soft linen sleep-wear. The normality lets Santi relax, just for a moment. 

Then he notices that Wolfe’s hands are shaking. 

His heart sinks and he fights a quick mental battle between the instinctive urge to take care of Wolfe and the urge to shut his eyes and pretend it’s not happening. 

He hasn’t felt like this since Wolfe’s initial recovery period, and it scares him enough to produce a jittery burst of energy. He needs to be better than this. 

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” he asks, even as Wolfe approaches him. Wolfe gives him an unimpressed look, but the embrace he wraps Santi in is tighter than usual. Santi squeezes him in return, and feels that the tremor isn’t just in Wolfe’s hands, but is spread throughout his entire body like a weed.

It’s still a balm to hold Wolfe, though, even with worry eating away, just to feel him safe and warm and whole. 

“At least you didn’t try to pretend I’d be asleep,” Wolfe says dryly into Santi’s shoulder. 

“I know my limits,” Santi replies, rubbing Wolfe’s back. Wolfe scoffs and nips his neck, hard.

“Do you?”

Santi rolls his eyes and ignores that. “Are you at a good stopping point?” He nods towards the open Blank on the table. Sometimes it can be impossible to get Wolfe to go to bed, especially on a bad night, and this is the least combative framing they’ve found for that conversation. 

Wolfe steps away and looks at it for a moment. “Yes. Nothing that can’t wait until morning.” He turns back to Santi and tugs at the collar of his shirt, slipping the first button free. “What about you? Do you need to decompress for a little while?”

Santi’s definitely too tired; it takes two more buttons and Wolfe’s palm scraping the stubble on his cheek before he realises what Wolfe’s actually asking. 

“I hadn’t thought about it.” He returns the favour, twisting his hand into Wolfe’s hair just as he likes it. His hair feels freshly washed; soft and silky. Wolfe tilts his head back in the way that he usually only does when he’s aroused - but he’s not, they’d just hugged tightly enough that Santi would have noticed. That worries him, too. 

“Well I _have_ thought about it,” Wolfe says firmly, and goes for Santi’s belt buckle. His hands shake too much to undo the stiff leather. 

“Chris.” Santi catches his hands. “Chris, love, it’s all right. I don’t think you’d get much result from me anyway.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Wolfe wrenches his hands free (Santi doesn’t really want to let them go). “Don’t look at me like I’m fucking broken, Nic.” His eyes are wild and he’s starting to lose control of what had been a fairly mild tremor. Retreating to base language is a bad sign, too. 

Santi’s mind feels numb, and he’s slow to do what he wants, to reach for Wolfe again, slow enough that Wolfe dodges him with ease. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

Wolfe barks a laugh and stalks away. “Sorry for what?” he calls over his shoulder. 

Santi frowns. Hadn’t Wolfe had essentially asked for an apology, just now?

“Whatever you want me to be sorry for,” he mutters with bad grace. He shuts his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose as the headache that’s been building all day decides to throw a hammer at his skull. 

When he opens his eyes again, the world blurs for a moment. It clears with a blink, and he catches Wolfe looking at him with a surprisingly composed expression. 

“I told you you shouldn’t have gone,” he says flatly. 

Santi experiences an odd flat gap where normally he would have an emotional reaction.

_Yes_, says his exhausted mind into that gap, _it’s your fault Wolfe is struggling tonight_. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles again. He takes off his boots - his fingers fumble with the laces and he end up wrenching them painfully off - and walks in the direction of the bedroom. Wolfe trails him. His heart sinks even further when Wolfe goes back to the buttons on his shirt. 

He can’t. He just can’t. He’s never felt less enthused about sex in his life. But he can still feel the frantic, endless tremor running through Wolfe, and he owes it to him to fix that, in any way he can. So he turns his head and kisses Wolfe. 

It’s soft and shallow, and Wolfe quickly pulls back from it to give him another of those narrow-eyed looks. 

“I’m not after sex anymore, Nic.” He caresses Nic’s cheek, and despite himself Santi leans into the touch. “It might have helped me, but it won’t help you, I can see that.”

“I’m fine,” Santi protests. 

“Of course.” Wolfe taps his cheek in remonstrance. “You’re fine. I’m fine. This is a rational conversation happening between two entirely functional people at a sane time of the night.” 

Santi sits down and huffs out a shaky laugh. The bed feels soft enough to eat him alive. “Oh, shut up, my love.”

“Gladly.” Wolfe swings himself down onto Santi’s lap. Santi’s arms wrap around him without involving Santi’s brain, and Santi lets his forehead rest against Wolfe’s collarbone. 

Far from calming him, Wolfe’s shaking hits a convulsive level, and his breathing quickens. 

“What’s wrong?” Santi holds him more tightly. Wolfe shakes his head and rests his damp cheek against Santi’s forehead. 

“Nothing, love. Just seeing off the irrational thought of the day. You’re all right.”

“I’m fine,” Santi replies automatically, then tries to stir his muddy thoughts to clarify. He doesn’t really succeed: “No, I know … but .. irrational?”

“Mm.” Wolfe presses a kiss to Santi’s forehead and inhales slowly and carefully before speaking. “The mental image of you in there was well-branded into my brain, once upon a time. It doesn’t take long to resurrect. To obsess that the whole thing is a master con and that once you’d set foot in those tunnels, the doors would swing shut behind you and the Artifex and, and Qualls -” He breaks off with a sob and shudders so hard that he nearly dislodges himself from Santi’s lap. 

Santi’s headache booms so badly that for a moment his vision stops, but he clings to enough control to make comforting noises and rub Wolfe’s back. 

“I’m here,” he manages eventually.

Wolfe nods. One sharp motion; Santi can sense him scraping himself back together. 

“Barely.” His fingers are cool on Santi’s face, his lips damp when Santi tilts his head to brush his own against them. “Both of us, barely here.” Wolfe heaves a sigh. “You imagined me in there, too, I assume.”

Santi shrugs. “Less dramatically than you.”

“You do everything less dramatically than me, soldier.” Wolfe’s barriers are back up, his tone arch and flippant. It’s a relief, Santi realises guiltily, as he releases Wolfe with one arm to brace himself against the mattress. He's just so tired. 

Wolfe watches him from his raised vantage point on Santi’s lap. The position is familiar, and Santi sees it flicker in Wolfe’s eyes for a moment, the renewed desire to pounce. 

Instead he just reaches for Santi’s shirt, which is hanging almost loose now. Opens it and slides it down to Santi’s elbows. Reaches for his belt again, and manages it this time despite his shaking, despite the tears that Santi doesn’t even think he realises are leaking still. 

“What?” Santi manages as Wolfe stands. This isn’t sex, so … 

Wolfe tugs Santi’s trousers down and off. It’s an undignified sight that Santi might have laughed at any other time. 

“Shirt off, trousers off, boots off. That’s your minimum, isn’t it?” Wolfe folds the trousers. He folds them wrong as usual, Santi will have to steam them out tomorrow. “Lie back, Nic. I’ll get you something for that headache that’s making you squint, and then we can sleep.”

That wasn’t an order but Santi finds himself following it anyway. His arms give way and he lands on the mattress, and it takes a superhuman amount of effort to shift his legs onto the bed too and roll on his side. The world spins even with his eyes closed, as his body tries to bulldoze him straight into sleep. 

* * *

Does he take anything, after that? He doesn’t remember by the morning, but the headache’s gone, so perhaps he did. 

He does remember Wolfe settling onto the bed behind him, and him summoning the very last scrap of energy he possessed to roll over to face him, to worm their arms and legs and bodies together in the best form of reassurance either of them can offer.


	2. Kink - Voyeurism (Jess/Katja, Anit)

Anit, newly the Red Lady, was very aware of her age. Specifically, the way that people didn’t respect her as a result of it. 

It frustrated her. Perhaps she was even a little harsh in the punishments she doled out as a result. But she was the last surviving scion of her father’s empire and although the purview of that was changing now, she would have respect one way or the other. For the sake of her brothers, if not her father. 

Was she a child? What was a child, anyway? 

She had left formal schooling at the earliest permissible age of fourteen, with excellent exam results, already with a broader general knowledge than her pampered classmates. 

She had travelled the world on legitimate business as well as in the shadows, and had conducted deals in more ports than most people her age had even heard of. She spoke Greek, Coptic, Spanish, English, and enough Russian and Chinese to know when she was being fucked over on a deal. 

Physically, she certainly wasn’t a child. She’d started her monthly bleeding three months ago; she had the requisite adult hair and chest and hips. People noticed her, and she noticed them noticing. 

So she’d gritted her teeth when Jess and Katja had started staring at each other. 

She would have thought that she stood in the middle of them, the link between them, that in order to look at each other they would at least need to consider her first. 

But no, it was as though she was invisible and that made her angriest of all. 

How dare they ignore her? Think of her as a child? Both of them. Either of them. Did they think they were being subtle? Did they she think she hadn’t noticed?

Maybe they did care about who saw them, a little bit, because when the staring finally crystallised into action, Katja took Jess to one of Anit’s hideouts, rather than a dock bar like Anit had been expecting.

Anit knew all the secrets of her father’s various safe spots, hideouts, warehouses and more. Secrets Katja would never be trusted with now. 

They might have been able to get past her out on the streets but in here, she merely prowled the hidden labyrinth of passages and peered into room after room until she found them.

This particular peephole, set with tiny angled mirrors to ensure the widest view possible, looked out of the claw decoration of Baba, the vicious baboon god from the Duat, who devoured the hearts of the unworthy. Her father had shown her it when she was ten, and it had given her nightmares for months.

It made her uneasy now. Was Baba getting an advance look at her heart and licking his lips? 

She shrugged it off as fanciful; she hadn't even done anything. _They_ had. She'd just found them. It could have happened entirely by accident.

Jess spotted the baboon statue and looked at it with a wary expression. For a moment Anit's breath snagged. If anyone could spot a peephole, it would be Jess Brightwell. 

“Really, Katja? In here? In front of this ugly thing?” He was midway through stripping off his clothes, with his boots and socks flung aside, and his shirt on the floor next to him. The hem of his undershirt was gripped in his hands, and Anit could see just a peek of white skin underneath. She couldn’t wait for more.

His voice was a little hollow and echoing to Anit’s ears, but perfectly audible. She could smell musty wood where her face was pressed against the peephole, and scribbled a quick note to herself on a scrap of paper to get someone to check this wing for damp and woodworm. 

“No-one comes in here,” Katja replied as she stepped out of her trousers. She wasn’t wearing any underwear and Anit momentarily stopped paying attention to the world around her at the sight. 

Jess didn’t seem so affected, somehow:

“No one comes in here? I wond-” Jess’ sarcasm was cut off by Katja pressing herself against him. He made a muffled sound. Anit tried to embed it in her memory. By the end of this she was hoping to have a wonderful catalogue of sounds to replay at her leisure. 

They kissed, twisting around each other, all tongues and teeth, as between the two of them they removed the remainder of Jess’ clothes.

Anit’s lips spread wide in a grin. Jess’ tan lines were hilarious. It started off well, with the exact fit of his usual shirt clear on his arms and neck. His back showed varying dapplings of pink and darker tones, but his arse was luminescent fishbelly white.

Katja was better off, somehow, from what Anit could see of her from this angle. The skin of her stomach and thighs was doughy and just as pallid, but there was less of a difference between that and her limbs. But then again, their work had never previously seen a great deal of midday sunlight. 

“Come on, Brightwell,” Katja muttered at last into the kiss, and dug her fingers into the soft white flesh of his arse. 

That looked painful, Anit thought, and wasn’t surprised when Jess’ arms shifted in retaliation and Katja grunted and moved backwards. 

“Knew you were soft, soldier boy,” Katja taunted. She was stocky, with muscular shoulders and thighs and well-padded everywhere else. 

Her nipples were fascinating. They were bright pink and stuck far out from her chest. 

Under her cloak, Anit was wearing only a loosely-tied wrap dress, so it was easy for her to put her hand underneath the linen and cup her own breast for comparison. 

Unaroused, her nipples were merely a dark spot on the circle of skin surrounding them, but everything was pulled taut there now and she had a tiny firm nub to rub with her thumb. Her breast overfilled her hand and she squeezed it tightly.

Little where Katja was big, soft where she was hard. Was Katja a body type Jess preferred?

Anit wondered what they would think of her body. What it might feel like to have their hands on her breasts.

After that thought happened it was only natural to pull the wrap a little wider and slide her other hand down her stomach to address her arousal. 

“I’m not a soldier anymore,” Jess replied, pulling Anit’s focus back into the room. He shifted from foot to foot.

Katja laughed. “Is that supposed to impress me?” She reached down towards Jess, and he drew a sharp breath in and clutched at her upper arms. 

Anit could just see some of Jess’ cock from the side, mostly obscured by light brown hair and Katja’s grasping hand. She very nearly hissed at Katja to move before she quite remembered what the situation was. 

She wasn’t quite wet enough to properly enjoy herself yet, so she spat on her fingers to help it along. Took it slow, a pinch along her lips, a fingernail pressing into the bulge of skin where her clitoris sheltered. 

“Well, that might not impress you,” Jess said, with a self-deprecating little chuckle that ended in a cough. 

Katja scoffed. “A cock’s a cock. I’ll wait for a demonstration.” She tilted her head. “I won’t wait much longer, mind you.” With that, she tapped Jess’ cock with her hand. Maybe more than a tap. It swayed and bobbed, in full view for a split second and then lost again as Jess cupped his hands over it and took a step backwards.

“Hey!”

Katja snorted, then looked at him and squared her shoulders. “That got a bit of fight back in you, did it?”

“You fucking slapped my dick!” His tone was outraged.

“Oh, you soft bastard.” Katja’s voice and posture relaxed, and she caught Jess’ punch like it was nothing. “What do you want, Mr Not-A-Soldier-Anymore? Want a cuddle and a smooch? Go back to your precious Library.”

“Shut up.” Jess swung another punch. 

Anit had seen him fight before, and she could see exactly how much his long illness had taken out of him. But she knew his cunning streak was as wide as the river, and she really hoped she wasn’t going to have to organise a few to men to “accidentally” come across them before either of them ended up incapacitated. 

She pouted. This wasn’t what she’d hoped to see. 

Katja had caught Jess’ punch and thrown his fist back down again. “Don’t you want me anymore, Brightwell?” She put her hands on her hips, which made her nipples stretch even further forwards. 

“Oh, fuck off, you know I do. That’s why I’m here, in this stupid creepy room.” Jess took hold of Katja’s hips and pulled her towards him. 

That was more like it, Anit thought happily. 

“So show me.” Katja’s hands wound around Jess’ back, fingernails leaving red trails. “Where have those filthy eyes gone? Back me against a wall and fuck me already.”

Jess dipped his head and caught Katja’s mouth in a kiss that looked more like a bite. She let out a loud groan and pushed herself against him so hard that he took half a step back. 

Anit bit her lip. She was feeling distinctly overheated right now. 

“Fuck you? With what?” Jess’ tone was suddenly smug. They’d shifted positions again, just enough for Anit to see Jess’ hand digging deeply between Katja’s legs. 

Anit pushed a finger inside herself, then a second. Her free hand pinched her nipples hard enough to make her shudder with delicious pain. Her breathing was fast and dangerously close to noisy. 

Katja laughed breathlessly. “It’s good, but it could be better. Don’t be selfless.” She grabbed Jess’ cock and stroked it. “Be selfish. Pound me like I’m everything bothering you in the world.”

Jess’ laugh was sudden, startled. “That’s … that’s a long list.” He ducked his head and caught one of her nipples between his teeth. 

Anit couldn’t decide which side of that she wanted to be on. Jess’ teeth clamping down on her? Or Katja in between her lips?

Oh, Ra, she wanted all of it at once. She gritted her teeth tightly together and brought her other hand down between her legs too, pinning back the flesh for easier, faster, harder access to her needy clit. 

“A long list? I’ve got time, Brightwell, and a starving cunt.”

“You don’t shut up, do you? What about that wall?”

Anit would look back through the hole, in just a second, just, once she’d got there. Her fingers flew frantically over her clit. She had more than enough lubrication, now, she was hot and sopping and open. 

She needed more hands. Who would go where, if she was out there? Katja’s teeth tight on her nipples, maybe, and Jess’s fingers inside her. Or Katja’s hands on her breasts, squeezing them as Jess slid between her legs.

Options played themselves across her mind’s eye until she thought she could actually feel ghostly touches, the hint of warm bodies pressed up against her in her dark, musty hiding place. 

She might even go to her knees for them, she thought, with a quiet, shuddery thrill, be trusted where they were most vulnerable. Make them both happy. 

She’d never needed so desperately to be quiet when she orgasmed before, and it had never been so difficult. She spun away from the hole and stared blindly at the dancing dust motes as she let the climax hit her, holding her breath for as long as she could before pressing her forearm to her mouth and carefully exhaling through her nose. 

Her heart was racing and her body needed her to gasp for air, but she couldn’t.

Apart from anything else, gasps were coming from the other side of the wall and she could hardly miss out on that, could she?

She kept her arm against her mouth, leaning on it as she repositioned for the peephole. Stay quiet, Anit. Stay quiet.

The two of them were finally wordless now; Jess’ hands still at Katja’s hips and his head bowed over her shoulder, one of her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands clenched in his hair. Both of their pale bodies were flushed pink - Jess in a steady wave creeping across his back, and Katja's in splotches.

Wordless but not silent; Katja’s ample flesh slapped against the wall where Jess’ hard thrusts knocked her back, and her groans were loud and unabandoned. Jess was quieter, little grunts of effort from his fierce, steady pace and the occasional bitten-off curse. His breathing was raspy and painful-sounding, but he wasn’t coughing or gasping for air so Anit figured he was probably all right. 

She watched them and jammed her fingers into herself to mimic Jess’ cock, again and again, bashing that spot inside until it roughened and grew - and this time she had to literally chew on her forearm to keep herself anything resembling quiet as she orgasmed, sinking to her knees and quivering all over. 

She rested her head against the wall and tried to pant quietly, to let the heat seep out of her skin into the cool floor, let the energy shiver itself away. Relaxed. Satiated.

Jess and Katja’s voices floated through the hole; she didn’t concentrate on them too hard. She'd had her fun; what did they matter, the traitorous pair?

Next time, though, she would need to bring a towel. 


	3. Whump: Fever/Dehydration (Thomas/Jess)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this one in like a day, hope it's enjoyable anyway!!

Jess stirred from his doze as Thomas entered the room, sat down on their bed and silently offered him a plate of food.

“Not hungry,” Jess mumbled, turning his face into the crook of his arm to cough with the effort of speech. Thomas gave him an unreadable look, shrugged, and stood up, leaving the plate precariously balanced on the blankets. Jess blinked and stared at his boyfriend’s retreating back. “All right, love?” He coughed again. It hurt. It always hurt.

“No.” Thomas leant on the doorway and stared at the floorboards separating them. “You?”

“Fine.” 

Thomas scowled. “_I_ was truthful. _You_ have double pneumonia.”

“Well ...” Jess was too breathless to laugh but he hoped one particularly wheezy exhale got the message across. “I’m fine, bearing that in mind.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, which Jess was relieved about. Any reaction was better than nothing right now, when Thomas was vacillating between angry, upset and completely shut down. 

Neither of them had been sleeping well the last few days. Jess had tried to suppress his coughing, but in the end last night Thomas had just got up and gone to the workshop. Jess hadn’t seen much of him yet today. 

And it was dark outside. Oops. Today was nearly gone.

“Thomas?” he called, just as Thomas started to turn away. 

“Yes?” Thomas frowned. “Do you need something?”

“I need _you_.” Putting emphasis on words made Jess cough, but then, breathing made Jess cough and he wasn’t stopping that any time soon, so he let it happen. He pointed at the armchair while he was coughing. “Talk to me.”

“I’m not a very good conversationalist,” Thomas said. His tone was a touch more doleful now than it was sullen, which Jess took as a good sign. A better sign was Thomas walking back into the room.

“Talk about what you’re making, holed up in there. Tell me about how shit you feel in German so I get about every fifth word. Recite a textbook. I don’t mind.” Jess pushed himself up to a sitting position, even though leaning against the headboard of the bed made his aching back feel like hell. Talking that much made him breathless like he’d been running. Fucking pneumonia. 

He started to complain as Thomas walked over to the bed with a particular look in his eye and started to fuss over him a little, but bit it back. That look was a hell of a lot better than bitterness or blankness. 

He did react, though, as Thomas tried to pull away one of his blankets. 

“You’re all tangled up,” Thomas pointed out.

Jess clung to the blanket, even though the effort made his chest and back ache so badly he could have groaned. “It’s cold.”

“It’s not cold.” Thomas touched the back of his hand very briefly to Jess’ cheek. “How on earth did you get this many blankets? I don’t remember you having this many last night.”

Jess tried to laugh but coughed instead, just for a fucking change, and swallowed a thick mouthful of phlegm. “Diversified into blanket smuggling. Blanket snuggling, too.”

Normally Thomas would have laughed at that, but he just regarded Jess with a tired expression. 

“Eat the food.”

“I will if you will.”

“I’ve already eaten.” Thomas glanced away, but Jess wouldn’t have even needed that tell.

“Like fuck you have.” 

Thomas gave him an unusually dark glare. “You need it more than me.”

“What, like it’s a limited resource?” Jess scoffed. Thomas looked away again. “Thomas?” Jess put his hand on Thomas’ forearm.

Thomas looked down at his hand. “You’re boiling hot, Jess.”

Jess tried for a flirtatious tone, though his head was starting to spin with all this expended effort. “Tell me something I don’t know.” Again, usually that would have teased some reaction out of Thomas, but he didn’t as much as blink. “Thomas, love?”

Thomas sighed. “This is the last of the food in the cupboards. I should go and get more, but I can’t. I’m sorry.” 

Jess’ stomach sank, adding nausea to the list of things he was determinedly ignoring. Thomas was doing even worse than Jess’d thought, if he was unable to leave the house. 

“That’s all right.” He stroked Thomas’ arm. “Don’t worry about that. Let me put an order in for tomorrow, we’ll get things delivered.” He reached for his Codex. It seemed very far away, and when he got hold of it, exceedingly heavy. His arm shook and his head spun. He gritted his teeth and got it onto his lap. 

“Right.” Thomas nodded, but very slowly, as if it was almost as much of an effort for him as it was for Jess. “I should have thought of that.”

“You’d never leave the workshop without me, it’s fine,” Jess mumbled. He had the pen in his hand but actually writing felt like climbing a mountain. Even with the wooden headboard digging into his back, he could feel sleep trying to claim him. 

Thomas stood, all in a rush. “I shall go back there, then. Eat the food, Jess.”

Jess did not eat the food. Jess put the food and the Codex on the bedside table, and then accidentally dropped into sleep exactly where he was, rolled over on his side with his hand resting on the table. 

He couldn’t stay asleep in that position, of course; he woke a few minutes later trying frantically to breathe. 

_Dying!_ his panic response chimed in. _Your lungs are fucked and you’re dying!_

_About time_, said the fluctuating part of him which still defined itself by what was forever missing.

He told them both to fuck the fuck off, and used the adrenalin burst to roll back over and prop himself clumsily up with pillows.

“Fuck,” he complained to the ceiling. Black dots danced in front of his eyes as his body attempted to make him breathe even faster than he was already doing. He waited out the worst of the reaction, by which point his mouth was bone dry. 

Calling for Thomas: energy. Lifting the Codex again to message him: energy. Fuck it; if he was going to exhaust himself anyway he might as well do it properly. 

Getting to his feet was the worst bit; the room tipped like a ship in a storm. Once he was upright, though, his legs felt surprisingly sturdy given that this was the first time he’d gotten out of bed in at least a day. He looked longingly at his blanket pile. It was very, very cold up here without them. 

By the time he made it to the kitchen, a cooler room by design, he was shivering so violently that he had to lean on the countertop to stand, as his outraged body attempted to deal with the bone-deep chill. 

The _entirely imaginary_ bone-deep chill, he reminded himself, to no avail. 

_Why is everything you do so fucking useless?_ he grumbled to his body. He put the pot on the ring to heat. Who knew whether drinking hot water was good for him or not, but the mere thought of drinking cold water was unbearable.

The dizziness got worse as he stared at the slowly heating water, and it took all his energy not to crumple to the floor. 

The whistle of the water coming to boil finally summoned Thomas from the workshop. He sighed so heavily that it was a full-body movement and came over to the counter.

“Jess, why are you out of bed?”

“Thirsty.” 

Thomas’ forearm pressed against Jess’ bare back, steadying him, which was nice but didn’t solve the problem of his unsteady legs. 

He reached for the hot water. Thomas slapped his hand out of the way.

“You are kidding me,” Thomas said darkly, filling a glass just over a quarter of the way with the water from the pot.

Jess made a complaining noise as Thomas filled the rest of the glass with cold tap water. No! Now it would be cold! 

He turned his face away like a child as Thomas brought the glass towards him. That made the dizziness a thousand times worse and now the black spots were back and his legs might as well just not exist for all the use they were. 

“_Verflucht noch mal_ _!_” Thomas pushed him painfully hard against the counter for as long as it took him to put the glass down, and then held him much more comfortably in his arms. 

But his tone had been black and bitter and belligerent, so Jess clawed his way back to full consciousness - or close enough, anyway - and found himself being carried back to bed. 

“What?” he said, pointlessly. His brain felt like it was made of porridge.

“Back to bed.” Thomas’ rumble from what felt like very far away brooked no arguments. Jess had no option but to let himself be plopped back on the bed, though he did conspire to land on as many blankets as possible to stop Thomas taking them away. 

“Why’re you angry?” he asked. It had come out as a mumble into the pillow, but Thomas somehow heard it. 

“I …” He trailed off. 

With an effort, Jess shifted to be able to see him, and made a ‘please continue’ sort of noise. 

Thomas shook his head. His hair needed a trim and it added to his general state of exhaustion. Now that he looked, Jess wasn’t certain when Thomas had last changed his clothes. “Just stay in bed.”

“C’mon.” Jess coughed after speaking. As usual. 

Thomas sighed again, and sagged. “Jess, please.”

Jess raised his eyebrows. 

“I’m not angry. I’m just .. I don’t know. My head is full of wool.” Thomas folded his arms around his chest, hugging himself. “There is so little of me left today; I don’t have the … the ability to care. And I should care. Because you’re very ill, and I love you very much. But I can’t feel that either, today, and you’re a self-destructive idiot.” He pressed his forehead with his left hand, as if he had a headache. “I don’t have any patience left for you. I don’t like that, but it’s true.”

“Thomas -” Jess began, but Thomas spoke over him;

“So please, stay in bed, and I’ll go and carry on staring at the workshop walls until being within them feels almost as awful as being anywhere else, and maybe things will be better tomorrow.” His voice was dull and defeated. 

Jess shoved himself upright again, using his elbows and the headboard and stubbornness. “That sounds like a shit idea, Thomas. At least stay in here. Stare at these walls. Shut your eyes.”

Thomas snorted. It wasn’t a laugh. “The last thing I want to do is shut my eyes.”

Before Jess could come up with anything better to say, to suggest, to plead, to find enough energy and oxygen from somewhere to embrace him, Thomas turned and trudged out of the bedroom. 

_ Fuck. _

Jess stared at the ceiling and tried to make his brain work. Fucking pneumonia. Fucking fucked-up lungs.

_ Still thirsty. _

His drink was in the kitchen still. Standing up would definitely make him pass out again, but could he crawl? Probably. He could probably crawl. 

_ No. No, come on, I need to think in larger terms than this. _

Thomas was very clearly in no state to be his nursemaid. Sometimes fussing around Jess could bring Thomas out of a blue mood, but this looked like a mood as black and sticky as sludge. As dangerous as marshland, drowned to the neck and hopeless. 

Now, Jess didn’t _need_ a nursemaid. He’d manage on his own. But even he had to admit that plotting to drag himself to a desperately needed source of hydration was not an ideal situation to be in. 

More importantly, if he wasn't in such a shit state, he would be able to help Thomas. Think of the right things to say, hold him without needing held himself. Distract him without being a concerning distraction. 

With a groan, he reached for his Codex again. 

Food ordering could wait. 

As much as he desperately didn’t want to, he opened his Codex and sent a message to Wolfe.


	4. Kink: Sadism (Wolfe/Santi)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OLD NOTE: This is probably the weirdest combination of whump and kink I've ever written. I nicked RosalindInPants' headcanon about Wolfe having bad fingers after Rome for this, just because it fit it so well. 
> 
> Set two weeks after returning from Rome. Contains no Rome flashbacks; Wolfe's working very hard to avoid them.
> 
> NEW NOTE: The full version of this can now be found as a separate oneshot in my Kink and Bone Series, entitled Jigsaw Pieces

This was definitely the longest that he had ever spent around Nic naked without engaging in something arousing, Wolfe mused. 

According to the calendar he’d asked Nic to tick off in front of him every day, it had been more than two weeks since he’d … returned, and he’d been naked a lot. 

He had to admit, there was probably very little arousing about him right now, what with every single part of him disobeying his commands most of every day and necessitating Nic turn into a nursemaid. Staying naked was just easier than the embarrassment of being wriggled into clothes. 

It wasn’t as though he was aroused, either. He couldn’t even imagine the feeling, it felt so distant. Right now he was tired even though he’d woken a mere ten minutes ago, and he was in pain even though his surroundings were warm and comfortable. Those were just his two default physical states now.

But still. Even so. The concept of arousing activities was a pleasant thing to mull over. 

With an effort, he wriggled onto his side and watched Nic snooze. 

Nic’s exhaustion which enabled him to sleep alongside Wolfe at three o’clock in the afternoon was Wolfe’s fault, but he distracted himself from that gaping hole of guilt by admiring Nic’s physique instead. 

It was all nicely on display for him; Nic slept naked and Wolfe’s habit of stealing the blankets had only been intensified by. 

By. 

Had only intensified, lately. 

Nic had accumulated a few more bumps and tiny, healing scars in the past year. (It had been a year. The calendar said so.)

_Read the rest as a reposted separate oneshot entitled "Jigsaw Pieces" _


	5. Whump/Kink: Adrenaline (Wolfe/Santi)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santi's been running on adrenaline for days. Wolfe helps him to calm down. 
> 
> Kink acts for the purpose of comfort, probably set soon after Sword and Pen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what our little group of tumblr sex goblins calls "comfort kink" - where it is kink, but it's not being written for arousal purposes but for comforting purposes.
> 
> It's not actually particularly relevant here, but this folds into my broader headcanon of The Dads enjoying kink in the bedroom - sadist Wolfe, masochist Santi, everything else a little up in the air right now. There's a little bit of role-playing here - I've not used Chris and Wolfe at random, despite what it might look like!

Santi was so hyped on leftover adrenalin that he had tunnel vision. He couldn’t turn it off. Couldn’t shut down.

“Come and sit down for a minute, at least, Nic.”

He headed for the sofa next to Wolfe, but somewhere along the way his legs folded and he ended up sitting beside Wolfe’s feet instead. 

“Oh.” Wolfe’s voice was quiet. His hand was warm on Santi’s recently clipped head. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Santi didn’t want to talk. Felt like he might punch something if he did. But he steeled himself, like he’d been doing all day, all fucking week, and pressed his forehead to Wolfe’s knee.

“Please, Chris.” The words came out hard and angry. 

“Of course, my love.” Wolfe stroked his head some more. 

It wasn’t helping. This wasn’t something that could be unwound by a quiet session at his lover’s feet. He shifted restlessly. He still wanted to punch something. Or be punched. 

“Please,” he said again. It sounded like a demand rather than a plead and that wasn’t right but he couldn’t fix that right now. “Or I swear I’ll start a fight with the next suitable -”

Wolfe’s hand covered his mouth firmly, and he shuddered. Then Wolfe’s hand slid down his chin to his throat, and he groaned and tipped his head back against the seat of the sofa to intensify the sensation. 

“I think I know the answer,” Wolfe said, “but, reply ‘Yes Chris,’ if you want me to be gentle with you and ‘Yes sir.’ if you need it rough.”

“Yes, sir,” he said immediately, his voice strained from the pressure on his throat. 

“Stand up and fetch me one of your belts.” Wolfe’s voice was suddenly sharp and intense, and Santi drank it in like oxygen. 

_One of your belts_. The belts that were his, because he’d bled on them. 

“Thank you, sir,” fell from his lips as he stood. 

“Did I say you could address me, private?”

Santi opened his mouth to say, “No, sir,” but caught himself just in time and shook his head. The world moved for a second after he stopped, and he saw Wolfe note his light-headedness. 

_Don’t stop_, he begged Wolfe silently.

“For that infraction, you’ll fetch the belt on your hands and knees.” 

Santi dug his teeth into his lower lip to stop another ‘Thank you,’ from emerging, as he sank to his hands and knees. Instead, he lowered his head to kiss Wolfe’s foot. 

“_Up_.” A real snap to Wolfe’s voice there. 

He sat back on his heels and met Wolfe’s furious eyes. God, Chris did furious so well. 

“I didn’t tell you to do that, you insubordinate little scumbag.” Wolfe raised his hand, slowly and clearly. Adrenalin ran through Santi at the sight, except that was a long-abused pathway now and it made him gasp with pain in his chest. 

“Nic?”

“I’m fine, Chris” he said, automatically, rubbing his chest. “Too wound up. You know.” Chris did know that overwrought chest pain, too intimately. 

Talking felt wrong. Saying ‘Chris’ felt wrong. Everything still felt wrong. “Please, sir.”

The clap of Wolfe’s hand across his face knocked him back a little, both physically and mentally. It was a cupped-hand blow, designed to leave a minimal mark. Because he had to go back to work tomorrow. 

_ Lord Commander. _

He pressed his fist into his chest and felt a grimace cross his face – only for it to be replaced by lax, shocked lips as Wolfe punched him hard in the chest, right next to his hand. 

“I gave you an order, private. Get on with it.”

When had he closed his eyes? He opened them again, and was confronted by Wolfe’s spread legs and crotch. His lover wasn’t hard yet, but Santi could fix that. 

He leaned in, only to cough as Wolfe’s hand closed on his throat again.

“Belt.”

Belt. Yes. Order. Follow the order. 

He crawled away to their bedroom. Lost himself for a moment in admiring the array of play belts. Wolfe had given him free choice, and there was so much. Soft leather, but spiked. Hard, oiled leather that was so inflexible it barely functioned as a belt. Thin. Thick. Flat, polished buckles or raised, decorated ones. 

Too much choice, he thought suddenly. 

He didn’t want to choose. He didn’t want to think. 

Wolfe’s footsteps creaked in the background. Was he looking at him? Judging him incapable of such a simple task?

Santi realised he’d put his hands over his eyes. Shame made him lower them and blink again at the selection in front of him. He had to bring Wolfe a belt. 

“What are you doing in there, private, making me an entirely new fucking belt?” Wolfe’s voice was harsh. “Hurry up. Bring me the …” He trailed off in thought. 

The thought that Wolfe was imagining the exact same sight that Santi was now seeing was an unexpected rush. As if Santi was his eyes. His hands. Just an extension of Wolfe. 

He tried to store the feeling away to tell Chris later. 

“Bring me the black studded one, and the thin one with the large buckle.”

Two belts. Two very different hits. He breathed the gratefulness in and out silently and reached for the correct belts. 

He knelt at Wolfe’s feet and looked down as he offered him the requested tools.

“At last.” Wolfe’s hand descended and he flinched, not with the anticipation of violence but with the anticipation of softness that he didn’t want, couldn’t bear. 

But Wolfe was better than that, of course he was; his fingers dug into Santi’s shoulder painfully. 

Santi let his eyes slide closed as the sharp ache filled him. 

He’d followed that order. What was next? The thought ballooned in the growing fog of his mind. Await the next order. That was all he needed to think about. 

“Bare your arse and turn around.”

Ironically, he struggled with his own belt. His fingers felt thick and clumsy, moreso when he hurried. And he had to hurry. Chris might want to help if he took too long. 

But no, Wolfe stayed silent the whole time that it took for Santi to undo his belt and slide his trousers and underwear down to his bent knees. He turned around, awkwardly, and then hesitated. Should he be up or down?

“Head down, arse up, private,” Wolfe said, as if he could read his mind. “You don’t deserve dignity.”

That was the first thing Wolfe had said which triggered arousal, rather than relief, and he let a breath shudder out through his nose in response. 

Wolfe’s hand landed hard on his left arse cheek. It was another cupped blow. Not hard enough. Not hot enough. He pushed himself backwards in mute pleading. 

“You’ll get what I want to give you,” Wolfe said curtly. He grabbed Santi’s cheek and dug his fingers in. Santi relaxed a little as his body dealt with the pain. Better. “This isn’t yours to argue about, is it? Let me hear you agree, private.”

That took a moment. Had to lift his head from where it was pressed against his folded arms. Had to lick his lips and inhale and remember what Wolfe had just said, all the while his arse cheek was throbbing from Wolfe’s iron grip. 

“It’s not mine, sir. It’s yours.”

“Too fucking right.” A much harder slap this time, from the thick belt. Wolfe’s hand slid lower and wrapped around Santi’s ballsack. “And this? Can I do whatever I want to this?”

Santi’s entire body lit up with heat and Wolfe hadn’t even done anything yet. “Yes, sir.” 

Wolfe’s fingers closed like a vice around his most sensitive part and pulled his sack down, slowly and relentlessly. Santi let out a groan through gritted teeth. The pain washed through him like fire; sickening, relentless. Wonderful.

By the time that Wolfe released him, he was panting and sweating and suppressing a tremble in his thighs. Immediately Wolfe started swinging the heavier belt against his arse.

Santi let the steady rhythm calm his racing heart. One thump followed the next and all he had to do was shut his eyes and let it happen. 

Yet, it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t right. It just shut him inside his own head, and god he needed not to be in there right now. Itinerates and risk management plans were starting to dance in front of his eyes again. He needed to be driven out of his head.

“More,” he begged. He couldn’t take his face out of his arms so he didn’t know how on earth Chris heard him, but he did.

“Like this?” 

Santi cried out and grabbed for his arse. That felt like he’d just been sliced with a knife. Wouldn't be the first time Wolfe had done that to him, either. Was he bleeding?

“Hands _down_, you useless excuse for a soldier.”

Obediently he returned to his previous position, forehead against his arms, except this time his fists were clenched and he was trembling all over with anticipation. 

The blow came again, on the other cheek. Hard, cold metal, splitting him open. He cried out again. 

“That’s it. Let me hear you.” That was Chris now, voice intense but low, but that was fine, they didn’t need to be in role any more, as long as this pain continued. 

Each blow on his arse ripped another cry from him. He let himself be loud. Chris had asked. Chris liked to hear it. 

* * *

He was dimly aware that he was hard. He might even be making a mess on the floor. But much more important was the sudden idea, the desperate thrill, that Chris was going to somehow turn this slicing agony onto his ballsack. 

That wasn’t likely. He’d worked out that Chris was using the thin belt with the heavy buckle as a whip. He might actually be bleeding from it; he wasn’t sure. If Chris wanted him to bleed, he’d bleed. 

But Chris definitely couldn’t use that on Santi’s balls. Far too dangerous. 

Still. His shivering intensified at the mere thought. 

But the opposite happened; the blows stopped. Chris’ hands moved over his cheeks. Santi whined, needy and humiliating. 

“Chris!”

“Ssh, my love.” Chris dragged his nails down Santi’s arse, and that was a dreadful wonderful ripping sensation but, still, not what Santi needed. “I think you’re about done.”

“No!” Santi tried to push himself up but discovered that he couldn’t get his shaking arms to support him. Could barely get them unfolded. “Please, Chris. Squeeze my balls again. Please.” His voice was slurred. Lifting his face up, he felt an unexpected chill on his cheeks and realised that tears were streaming from his eyes. 

“Nic, in this state I could rip them off and you’d scream for more.” Chris voice was calm. “Let’s cool you down.” 

“No!” Santi hid his face in his arms again and started to outright cry, like a baby. He couldn't stop shaking. He knew that Chris was right but his entire psyche felt bruised and battered and desperate still. Pain was the only thing that helped. 

Chris started another round of heavy thudding. Repetitive. Soothing. “Do you trust me, love?”

“F-fuck you,” Santi stammered out. 

Chris chuckled. 

From the heavy belt to his hand, Chris dialled down the strength and rapidity of his blows. And it helped. Santi didn’t think it would, but it did. 

_I trust you_. 

He relaxed and let the pain decrease, let its absence rock him into a lulled, quiet state. 

* * *

“There we go,” Chris said softly. His hands caressed Santi’s arse and back. “Come up for me, love.” 

What? What did he mean? Santi’s mind rolled around foggily, unproductively. It wasn’t until Chris’ hands tugged under his arms that he realised. _Oh. Up_. 

He tried his best, but he was dizzy and weak and cold and Chris definitely had to haul him most of the way up, and then around, until his torso was draped over Chris’ lap. 

“I’ve got you.” Chris was stroking his head again, and a blanket had appeared over him, and this time the comfort was exactly right.


	6. Whump: Scars (All surviving main characters)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Google docs' word-counter, these are 7 sets of drabbles - which means they are exactly 100 words each. I used to really enjoy this format, and it was fun to play around in it again.

Sometimes Khalila’s hands bothered her. 

Burnt in the destruction of Philedelphia, then burnt again saving Murasaki’s life in Cadiz. Letting them heal hadn’t been the priority at the time, and so now they were discoloured. Dry. Delicate. 

Sometimes they bothered her physically: they were prone to tearing and infections, and the worst patch of skin was pulled so tight that it affected how she used a pen.

Sometimes they bothered her mentally: a focus for endless green-tinged nightmares full of fear; distaste for her own appearance; frustration at her inability to write like she used to. Like an Archivist should. 

* * *

Ironically, Glain’s impressive-looking scar across her forehead had been caused by a relatively minor head wound. Her first concussion, on that cursed train home from Oxford.

She had a hard skull, but she hadn’t expected to have that tested quite so much, so quickly. Three concussions and four head injuries in under a year. For the worst one to be at the hands of Dario and Jess, no she hadn’t expected that either. 

Dario still made a fuss about how guilty he felt. She made him pay for a lot of drinks. She pretended the hangovers explained the constant headaches.

* * *

Santi was used to scars. He was covered in them, as befitted a career soldier. Most of them, he didn’t mind. Most of them, to be honest, he barely remembered getting. 

But some, he did. Some days he didn’t want to see these ones in the mirror. Not because they were disfiguring or painful - they weren’t, and anyway, he’d never been vain in that way. 

He hated the marks on his chest because they reminded him of a year without Chris. 

They reminded him that he’d stopped looking. That he’d failed. That he owed Chris’ return to Chris’ _ damned _ mother. 

* * *

There were four scars on Dario’s chest, where the lioness automaton in the American colonies had been about to kill him before Jess stopped it. 

The tearing wounds had been agonising at the time. The nightmares had been worse. The silent red-eyed machine that he couldn’t fight and he couldn’t stop - the only one who couldn’t stop an automaton. It pounced on him again and again in nightmares. Sometimes it killed everyone else first. Left the least threatening until last. 

He’d thrown himself in front of a sphinx for Khalila, yes, but for himself, too. Just to prove he _ could _. 

* * *

Unlike Scholar Wolfe, Thomas didn’t have many physical scars.

He felt guilty about that, sometimes.

He’d suffered much less. They’d given him _books_, for God’s sake.

They might have twisted his mind in there, forced it into a weaponry mould, but at least he had been able to escape for short periods of time that way.

Mental scars, he supposed, yes. He had them. Panic. Difficulty with sleeping; with small spaces; with the sound of metal clanking against metal.

But again, less than Scholar Wolfe, who struggled so much and hid it so well. 

He didn’t deserve everyone’s concern, really. 

* * *

The scar on Jess’ cheek still made him flinch sometimes, if he caught himself by surprise in a mirror. Sometimes it was just an immediate aching reminder, but it was far worse when it heralded a friendly, familiar recognition.

_ Oh, there he is _.

That ripped his guts out, every time. Fresh and brutal.

So he punched one or two of the guilty mirrors, as if it was their fault that he was hollow and empty and shaking with a bone-deep loneliness that he didn’t know how to ease. 

He remembered Morgan’s touch, sealing the scar onto him. The memory _burned_.

* * *

Sometimes Wolfe felt like nothing more than a patchwork of scars pretending to be a person. A mummified corpse, existing in the eternal, dreadful present.

At his worst he was certain that Nic was in fact, merely waiting for the old Christopher to reappear. The Christopher who didn’t rip open his torture scars just to feel something that he trusted, who didn’t daydream about suicide simply for the blank peace of the concept. 

“Broken bones heal twice as strong.” Nic’s mantra was usually comforting.

But sometimes Wolfe remembered that scar tissue is weaker and more brittle than the previous skin.

  



	7. Kink: Leather/Boot Worship (Troll/Dario)

“May I?” 

Dario looked up, but Troll wasn’t looking at him, he was looking over at Khalila. 

“You may, Tom.”

Dario shivered. Of course. Troll didn’t need to ask Dario’s permission. Dario had already given it. He could only revoke it. 

Now he was knelt naked at Troll’s feet, and it was equally terrifying and arousing. 

Troll cupped his cheek with one hand, and applied gentle pressure. Dario let his head bend in the required direction, until it came to rest against Troll’s thigh. 

“You’re still nervous, aren’t you?” Troll’s thumb rubbed his cheek, and Dario had a brief, intense desire to suck it. “Stay here for a while. Relax. I’m not going to do anything yet.”

“Yet,” Dario said in a strangled tone of voice. 

Troll chuckled. “Yet.” His hand slid into Dario’s hair. “Are you still all right? Do you remember how to call this to a halt?”

Dario rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.” He shifted his position so that he was right up against Troll’s leg, half cuddled around it, and tentatively reached for his trouser cuffs, where the leather looked a little soft and crumpled. 

“How do you call this to a halt, Dario?” There was a trace of steel in Troll’s voice, and Dario jerked back to look up at him. His eyebrows were raised in what looked like impatience. 

Rebellion stirred in Dario’s chest. He’d just been settling down to this weird situation and now Troll wanted to imply he was going to be a coward and call it all off. 

“I could tell you to fuck off, that might work,” he retorted. 

Something flashed in Troll’s eyes, and Dario instinctively flinched away. But all that happened was that Troll let go of his hair and took a step backwards. 

Dario should get to his feet, and stare Troll down, and maybe tell him to fuck off again. But he didn’t. He stayed sat down, looking up at Troll, his heart beating very quickly in his chest. It was chilly all of a sudden, without all Troll’s warm leather pressed against him.

“It’s my job as the top to keep you safe, Dario.” Troll’s expression wasn’t angry. It was earnest. “But you’ve got to play your part, too. I need to know you can keep yourself safe by getting me to stop if you need to.”

“I can.” There was a thread of a whine in Dario’s voice, and he yanked his gaze away from Troll’s face to silently berate himself. “I say ‘Burner’ and you stop. I know that, I’m not a fucking  _ idiot _ .” That was supposed to be belligerent but it came out more whiny.  _ Dammit! _

He made a grab for Troll’s trouser cuffs again, and was surprised when Troll let him hold the soft leather without moving away. The urge to press himself back up against Troll’s legs swept over him like a wave and he shivered again. 

“Anyway,” he said, forcing an off-hand tone into his voice, “Khalila can tell you to stop, too.”

“Oh yes,” she said from her armchair, with a touch of mild sarcasm, “because expecting that I can read your mind has never gone wrong for us before. I’m only the back-up here, and you know it, darling.”

Dario pulled a face. Then a needy sound fell from his lips without his say-so, as Troll’s hand pushed back into his hair. It felt so good. 

“All I need to know is that you know the word, Dario. I’m not suggesting we stop anything right now. Simmer down. Come here.”

Another eager little groan slipped out without Dario’s permission, as he shifted his bum the few inches along the floor that he needed to rejoin Troll. 

The leather of the trousers was warm from Troll’s body heat, and he pressed his cheek back against Troll’s thigh eagerly. It felt so like skin that he found himself automatically nuzzling and licking it, like he would Khalila’s thigh if he were sat with her like this. But it wasn’t skin, under his tongue, it was leather, and licking it made the scent of it even stronger. He could smell Troll’s body underneath that, too. 

He did that for a while, luxuriating in the sensation, until his cock started to demand attention. He touched himself gently, just a rub, really, and although he firmly sealed his lips, his breath shuddered out of his nose in unmistakable gasps. 

“Oh, that was faster than I anticipated!” Troll laughed. He gently rocked Dario’s head back and forth a little. “He’s enjoying himself all of a sudden!”

More talking about him like he wasn’t there, combined with Troll shifting Dario’s head around however he wanted. God. He slid his palm over his cockhead and couldn’t stop the groan this time. 

“He was enjoying himself before, he’s just a defensive ass,” Khalila said fondly. “Now, darling, do I have to ask you to sit on your hands, or are you going to be patient?”

“‘I’ll be patient,” he replied immediately, letting go of himself. “I’ll be good.” Even his own voice was a turn-on; he sounded half-wrecked already; breathless and eager. “Please, sir. I’ll be good.” 

He mouthed at Troll’s thigh again, and ran his hands up and down the leather covering Troll’s calves.

“Oh, calling me sir, now? I thought I’d have to work you up to that.” Troll took hold of his chin, not gently, and made Dario look up at him. 

He looked quite far away and very tall, this muscular soldier who Dario barely knew. This man who Dario’s sole previous interaction with had been deliberately designed to aggravate. 

His expression was a little disdainful and a little proud simultaneously, like he was looking at a puppy who’d just learnt an easy lesson for the first time. 

The unease was a thrill, but it was also a tension, and Dario shivered all over even as he determinedly returned Troll’s stare. 

“So, boy. You’ve got a mouth on you, I can see that.”

“Sor-” 

Troll still had Dario’s chin in his hand, and he shook it hard enough to clack Dario’s teeth together. 

“Did I say you could speak?”

His tone was mild but his eyes were stern. Unease writhed harder in Dario’s belly. 

Not even being able to apologise was difficult. He summoned bravado; didn’t Troll know how lucky he was to get apologies from him?

Quickly, just to make himself feel better, he signed “Sorry’.

“Dario.” The disappointment in Khalila’s voice stabbed him in the chest. He shied away, tugging at Troll’s restricting hand. Unease rose hard into panic. He was getting everything wrong, and he didn’t know how to fix it. 

“Sir,” he pleaded. That word had gone down well before, hadn’t it? 

“I don’t like repeating myself, boy.” Troll’s expression didn’t change. 

How had Dario managed to fuck this up just by apologising? How was that fair? It wasn’t like before, when he’d deliberately been obnoxious over the … the way out of this, he had a way out.

“Burner,” he said. The vowel came out a little odd because of the way Troll was gripping his mouth, but it was comprehensible. 

Troll’s eyes widened and he immediately let go and stepped back. “Dario?” he and Khalila asked in almost perfect unison. 

Dario couldn’t look at either of them. 

“How was that fair?” He sounded angry and firm. Thank fuck for that. “All I did was say sorry!”

Troll tilted his head a little to one side, and suddenly flopped himself to the ground in a tangle of limbs. One booted foot stretched out, nearly touching Dario’s knees. 

“I thought you said you’d been strict with him?” He lifted his chin to talk over Dario’s head to Khalila. 

“I have. Stricter than a hand on the chin if he disobeyed a simple order, I can assure you.”

Their light, puzzled tones infuriated Dario almost as much as the fact that he’d just called the word to stop everything and they were still talking like he wasn’t there. 

“It’s different with him!” He gestured towards Troll without quite looking him in the eye. 

“Different how?” Khalila asked from behind him. Dario shrugged, pulled on a mask to hide his sudden inexplicable fragility.

“Well, he looks better in a uniform than you, flower, sorry.”

“No,” she said, gentle but firm. “We’re not having flippancy from you tonight.” 

She was too fucking clever, as ever. Knew him too fucking well. She got up from her seat and he felt her warm weight settling behind him.

It didn’t feel comforting. It felt like a rebuke. He shrugged off the hand she put on his shoulder.

“Look, I’m  _ sorry _ , ok? Can I say that now? Is that  _ allowed _ ? You don’t need to come down off your fucking throne and show me I failed!”

“You didn’t fail, Dario.” She kissed the back of his neck. “You just struggled with staying silent. Could you explain why?”

Dario tried to run the past minute or so through his mind. 

“He looked at me like he was going to fucking slap me.” 

He recalled the look - and then a realisation hit him. “And that was part of the act, wasn’t it? This strict High Garda thing you were talking about.”

Troll nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked concerned, and also so much less threatening like this, sat down, face relaxed, hair now a mess. “I didn’t mean to genuinely frighten you, Dario.”

“No, I get that. It’s fine. I’m an idiot. Whatever.”

His entire body was hot with embarrassment. Part of him desperately wanted to walk away and lock himself in another room until he felt better or had figured out how to completely bury this in his memory. 

But the other half was relieved, and soothed by Khalila’s hands which were curled around his sides, and not willing to give up quite yet. 

“You’re scared, aren’t you?” Troll’s voice was matter-of-fact. 

“Oh, fuck off.” Dario could no more have controlled his response to that than he could have sprouted wings. 

“Is it just me, or is it the look?” Troll gestured to himself, continuing as if Dario hadn’t spoken, and Dario’s gaze snagged just for a second on all that leather. “It’s pretty common to have a degree of fear for something that you also find hot. This whole thing is about crossed wires, in a way.”

Khalila was holding Dario tightly now, her front flush against his back, dabbing soft kisses on his shoulder, and he resented the sense of security that this gave him. 

“I’m aware of the psychology of this,” he said archly, then breathed in and out and spilled out some honesty before he lost his nerve. “It’s violence. Specifically. You could be violent. You’re trained. And that’s hot.” He put his hand over Khalila’s and she immediately shifted her other hand so that he was clasped between her palms. “But I thought the look in your eyes was real, and I didn’t … I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve it.”

He felt Khalila take a silent breath in against his shoulder, and knew that she’d caught the implication, that she remembered why he hated unfair punishments so much. 

Troll, unexpectedly, chuckled, and slapped his thigh. “Dario, is this immediate jump to assuming I mean you harm connected to the swaggering bullshit you spewed at me in Rome last year?”

Dario’s heart skipped a beat. He  _ knew _ Troll remembered that. Remembered him. 

He nodded. 

“Right. Don’t worry. You’re forgiven.” Troll’s face crinkled in amusement, then sobered. “I don’t pretend to understand a fraction of what your group did in Rome. I’m sure you had reasons and stressors for such over-the-top insults.” 

Dario felt his chest loosen. “Yes. Exactly. I was trying to slip Jess a message.”

“Ah. There we go.” Troll stuck his hand out. “Are we all right now, then?”

Dario took his hand. It was warm and firm. With the worry pushed aside, for now at least, his body decided to remind him that this could still be a very arousing situation. 

“Shall we keep going, then?” he said in a rush, letting go of Troll’s hand only reluctantly. Troll rolled his eyes.

“Is he always this mercurial?” he asked Khalila. Dario couldn’t help himself:

“That’s a long word, soldier, don’t hurt yourself.”

He steadied himself not to flinch as Troll reached for his mouth. But instead of a firm grip on his chin, there was only a brief touch to his lips. 

“Let’s take a step back, shall we?” Troll’s voice was reflective. “We’re sat together, that’s nice. Let’s start by giving your mouth something to do, other than say unwise things.”

Dario barely felt Khalila standing and leaving his side, such was the sudden hot rush of arousal at Troll’s words. 

“What did you have in mind?” he asked deferentially. Troll smirked.

“Not what you’re thinking.” He shifted the foot which was next to Dario. That drew Dario’s eye, but it took a moment before he put two and two together.

“ _ Oh _ ,” he said, startled. “With … with my tongue?”

Leather clothes, he’d licked and nibbled on those a lot. They were soft and pliable - and clean. A boot was none of these things. An unfamiliar but not unpleasant mix of disgust and arousal ignited low and hot in his stomach, adding to his overall excitement. 

“Mm.” Troll leant back on his elbows, in what looked like a deliberate attempt to put no pressure on Dario at all. Dario eyed Troll’s muscular shoulders for a covetous second, then returned his attention to his new task. 

The boot looked clean. Very clean, actually. It shone. 

“I’ll mess it up,” he said cautiously. 

Troll shrugged. “I’ll polish it again. Or-” He broke off and shook his head, but not before his gaze had shifted into something so molten and intense that it took Dario’s breath away. 

“What?” he demanded. 

Troll tapped his fingers on his thigh. It was his turn, now, to look a little discomfited. “It’s a common start, down at the Hive. Most boys start off as bootlickers.”

Dario did his best to look well-behaved and attentive, rather than saying, “Yes,  _ and _ ?” like he really wanted to. It seemed to work:

“If you’re not already under someone’s authority, you can make yourself more attractive by being a good bootblack - that’s looking after someone’s boots.”

_ Ah _ , Dario thought.  _ So it  _ is _ an erotic thing _ .

“So, me doing this for you would be another way of … of demonstrating deference?” He curled around saying the word ‘submission’ out loud. 

Troll nodded, failing at nonchalance.  _ It really means something to him _ , Dario mused. 

“Have you done it before?” he asked. Added, carefully, "Sir?"

“Many, many times. I’ll be judging your technique,” Troll joked.

“And have you had it done for you?” Khalila got there before Dario could. 

Troll jumped a little, as if he’d already forgotten she was there. He drew in a breath - preparing to lie, Dario strongly suspected - then sighed it out again. “I’ve been a practise pair for lots of friends. But no, no-one’s ever … not properly.”

“Well,” said Khalila, in a musing yet firm tone, at the same time that Dario said, 

“So no pressure, then?” with a nervous laugh. Troll looked at him and seemed to refocus.

“No pressure! I’m not asking you to sell your soul to me. It can be completely transactional.”

_ But it clearly won’t be _ , Dario thought, and licked his lips. 

“Just, now you know what I get out of it, I suppose.” Troll tapped his fingers on his leg again. “Actually. If we’re going to do it properly …” He got to his feet and grinned down at Dario. 

Dario sank his teeth into his bottom lip and only noticed when it started to hurt. It was fascinating to watch Troll settle himself back into that calm, confident state. 

Fascinating and yes, fiercely arousing. His erection was starting to really take up a portion of his attention. 

He looked at the shiny boot in front of him for a moment longer, then raised his head to ask for further instruction. He could see a couple of potential positions to do this from, but if there was a ‘correct’ way, he wanted to do it like that.

He’d barely opened his mouth when Troll said in a commanding voice,

“Lie on your stomach, boy.”

_ Oh _ . Dario swallowed.  _ Right _ . 

His heart was beating very hard and fast as he lowered himself onto his stomach. His erection pressed against him, and he reached down to adjust it. 

“Hands off. Put them by your sides.”

Not even allowed to lean up on his elbows. Fuck. 

_ You’re at the bottom now, Dario _ , he told himself, fearfully, gleefully. 

He wriggled forwards and exhaled a heavy breath onto the boot in front of him, fogging its perfect surface. No sound of disapproval came from above. 

He licked the tip, cautiously. It was hard and smooth and cool, and his brain helpfully provided him with an immediate sense memory of a dildo. Pleased, he immediately curved his mouth over the hard toe of the boot to suck on it. 

His tongue scraped against the textured underside of the boot, and again the spike of disgust was softened by a swell of heat. This was awful, in a way, but that somehow made doing it even better.

Troll’s quiet laugh from above drew his attention. “You do love having things in your mouth, don’t you, boy? Use your tongue.” The boot was pushed forwards in his mouth for a shocking, fantastic second, then was removed completely.

_ Did I do it wrong? _ Dario wondered, concern sharply fracturing his mood. But, no. Troll was just giving him advice, wasn’t he? How to do it  _ better _ . 

The toe of the boot glistened now with his saliva, and he set about licking that away, smearing it into the leather. 

Slowly, carefully, he worked his way up across the boot. Above the toe, the material gave a little underneath his tongue, encouraging him to press harder to feel it move. Could Troll feel his tongue, however faintly? Pressing into the top of his foot? Oh, he hoped so. The more he licked, the more the boot warmed and started to taste and smell like leather, until Dario’s head was spinning with it just as much as it had been with the trousers earlier. 

“Flatten your tongue more,” Troll said quietly. 

Dario looked up, and flexed his tongue until he got a nod. The urge to ask how he was doing itched inside him almost unbearably, but he restrained himself.

Reaching the above the ankle part of the boot without bracing himself upright with his hands or elbows was tricky. His tongue was a little sore, too; this stretched it differently to eating Khalila out. He did his best, bobbing himself up and down and panting with the effort. The movement transferred down his body, just a little, and the friction against his erection made that situation difficult. 

Still, he persisted. Khalila would be very disappointed if she learnt that all their hard work on not letting his cock run the show had gone to waste. 

“Look at you. Trying so hard.”

Dario looked up at Troll again, only about a quarter listening to his voice. The soldier was haloed by the light above him. Dario blinked and that effect went away. His eyes were a little blurry. 

“Are you enjoying yourself? I know I am.” 

Dario nodded, which hurt his neck, so he leant against the boot for some support. A flat, shocked thrill ran up his spine as Troll nudged his face with the other boot, so that his face was momentarily wedged hard between them. The other boot moved on, pressing its thick textured sole into Dario’s shoulder and back. It didn’t quite hurt, but it was breath-stoppingly heavy. Dario’s skin fizzed wherever the tracks lifted. He could feel every ridge of the imprints.

_ That’s going to mark _ , Dario thought dizzily. Then, even more dizzily,  _ He’s fucking _ standing _ on me, that’s what he’s doing right now _ . The realisation drove a moan out of him and he leaned more heavily against the boot he had licked. 

“I wondered if you’d like that,” Troll said. His voice was thick and breathless. “Feels good to be on the floor under a boot, doesn’t it?”

Dario made a noise in return. He couldn’t quite form words. Instead he mouthed at the part of the boot he could reach, and tried to say thank you like that.

Eventually the boot on his back went away, and he was sad, but then Troll’s fingers threaded securely into his hair and Troll called him a “Good boy,” and everything was good again. Very, very good. Everything was bright and soft and smelt like leather.

Sit up? He had to sit up now? He could do that. Probably.

He blinked and suddenly there was a cock in front of his face. Troll’s cock? Probably. It was hard and red and dripping wet and it looked so very tasty. 

He looked at it and longed for its stretch and weight. But he was good. He was just licking leather tonight, like a good submissive boy. 

Khalila’s voice, right in his ear. Where had she come from? “You can have your treat now, darling. Go on.”

Her voice brought a little sense back into him; she was curled around him from behind, rubbing his torso and thighs. He relaxed back against her, but immediately leaned forwards again as Troll slid into his mouth. He groaned with pleasure and sucked, hard. 

“Oh, you can go further in than that, Tom,” Khalila said politely. Her hand was warm on Dario’s throat. “You can be as rough as you like, here, really. You’re not his first cock.”

“Right, then,” Troll said in a ragged voice. 

“Breathe, darling,” Khalila whispered in his ear. That was the last thing Dario noticed for a while, as Troll fucked his face and gripped his hair, and Khalila’s hands, her fingernails, traced wonderful patterns over his body. 

Then Troll’s thrusting turned even faster and more desperate, and Khalila took firm hold of Dario’s aching, dripping erection and worked it in frantic time and Dario let everything wash him away into white bliss. 

* * *

“Well,” Troll said, a little awkwardly ten minutes later. Dario yawned in response, from where he was curled up on the sofa under three blankets. “That was fun. I’d do that again, if you wanted.”

Dario nodded. “You stood on me.” He giggled. 

Troll stepped closer and stroked Dario’s hair. “Damn right I did.” He chuckled hoarsely. “And if I think too much about the way your eyes blew when I did it, I’m going to need to fuck you again.” His hand curved down Dario’s cheek, over his chin. 

Dario repositioned his head more comfortably on the sofa arm and opened his mouth hopefully. That would be fun. 

“No, darling. That’s enough.”

He closed his mouth again, chastened. “S’ry, m’lady,” he mumbled. Then something struck him. “Your boots are all messy now.”

That wasn’t quite what he’d meant to say. He’d meant to offer to clean them. He remembered how important that had been to Troll. 

Luckily Troll seemed to understand. “Maybe I’ll show you another time,” he said, and chucked Dario under the chin. 

Then he moved away, and started talking quietly to Khalila. Dario yawned again. Nothing interesting was happening anymore, so he shut his eyes. Wriggled a little, to feel the blanket touch the sensitised nerves of his back. Mm. 

The front door opened, and a draft blew in. Dario grumbled to himself. 

“Good night, Archivist, Scholar Santiago.”

“Good night, Lieutenant Rolleson. We look forward to your company again soon.”


	8. Day 22: Hallucinations (Whump)

"Scholar Wolfe?" 

Wolfe looked up at Khalila's voice. The last voice he had expected to hear, in here.

"Archivist." His voice sounded hoarse, and he coughed as if clearing his throat would help. 

A look of concern crossed her face. "Would you like a glass of water?" 

He shook his head. 

It was an awful thing to think of the astonishing young woman in front of him, who was both his child and his queen, but he just wanted her to go away. 

_Needed_ her to.  The idea that he might have to exchange more words with her made his carefully balanced equilibrium start to judder. 

He could handle this. If she just left him alone, in this nice little nook he'd made for himself, he could carry on writing between the… issues. The slides. 

There was nothing special about today. It wasn't the anniversary of anything, he and Nic hadn't fought, and he couldn't think of anything that he'd noticed that might have triggered his brain to malfunction, and yet that was undeniably what was happening. His head was full of hated voices and sensations and every now and again they seeped into the world around him. 

He could have stayed in bed with the covers over his head, curled around Nic, and ridden it out that way. But Nic had a vital meeting with the Russian ambassador and anyway Wolfe wasn't a coward, so he'd pretended to be asleep when Nic had risen.

He was brutally returned to his present situation when one of Khalila's assistants nudged through the carefully arranged bookshelves to speak with her, making one of them shift on its wheels. 

The gap stared at him balefully. 

"Don't do that," he snapped. His brain heard the words and helpfully presented him with a corresponding memory. 

He fumbled to solidify himself through touch. Hard desk. Soft Blank. The collar of his shirt. None of these things existed in that memory. 

He regarded his perfectly intact fingernails for a moment, before steeling himself as much as he could:

"I'm busy, Archivist. Can I help you?" 

Bad word choice, Chris! Horrendous word choice! 

_Help_. 

The prison walls loomed even through his carefully constructed bookshelf orientation. 

He gripped the desk so hard that his fingers hurt. 

_ It's not real. It's not real. You can see it, but it's not real. You can smell it, but it's not real.  _

He couldn't catch his breath. Didn't want to breathe, if it meant smelling that deathly, terrible smell. 

But he could hear, still. 

That was Khalila's voice. 

That had to be real. 

He tried to listen, as well as hear. Tried to understand, to use the words her voice was forming as handholds to pull himself out of the murk he was drowning in. 

"- Reading Room, Scholar Wolfe, in the Serapeum. You are sat at a desk. Can you feel the seat underneath you, and the desk under your fingers?" 

He nodded. The breath shuddered out of him in something that sounded like a sob. He could feel what she said. He could trust Khalila. 

"Well done, Scholar Wolfe." 

No. That was Khalila's voice but those words, oh, those words were Qualls and they rolled over him like a wave. 

Even as he tried to cling to rationality, he confused himself. Had she said that? Or was his brain putting words into her mouth? There was nothing solid left to trust. 

He wrapped his arms around himself. He didn't want to open his eyes. He thought he might disintegrate irreversibly if he was wrong.

A spark of relief; he was wearing clothes. Nice clothes. Comfortable. Good quality. He gripped the cuffs of his shirt in his hands and used that as a centering point. 

When he opened his eyes and looked at Khalila, it still seemed like the Reading Room was at best a thin overlay over the lurking maleficence of Rome. Everything was blurry. 

He reached for Khalila, to check if she was real, and only belatedly pulled his hand away in shame. 

But she was already responding, and he didn't have the fortitude to pull away from her firm, warm grip. 

She handed him his reading glasses. When had he taken them off? 

The world was more defined with them on, but all the more brittle and sharp because of it. 

'Could you tell me what you can see right now?' she asked very gently. 

He gritted his teeth. Shame flashed hot and itchy under his skin. He tried to scratch, but she kept hold of his hand. 

'I'm not an idiot, Khalila.' He pulled his hand away again and this time she let him, so that he could rub his face. In doing so he discovered that was sweating profusely. How _disgusting_. 

'No, of course not. I apologise. Can you talk to me about what's happening?' Her expression was concerned, but, he thought, surprisingly un-panicked for how much of a mess he must look. 

'It's just a bad day,' he said curtly. Absentmindedly he scratched at his arm, hard enough for hot pain to momentarily overwhelm the itchiness. 

'Don't hurt yourself,' she exclaimed, and reached for his hand again. He put both his hands under the desk, like a child, and snapped, 

'If I was trying to hurt myself, I'd choose a better method.'

And there were so many better methods. 

_So many_. 

His next inhale caught the prison smell again, and even though he knew he wasn't there, the fear slammed his throat closed and made him gasp. 

He didn't quite know what happened then, but suddenly Khalila was holding his hand again, this time in both of hers. 

'Can you hear me, Scholar?' she asked. He nodded. 'And see me?' 

He nodded again, and licked his dry lips. 'I'm here. I know, Reading Room, all that.' He pushed his free hand into his hair and tried to bring his panting under control so that she'd listen to his next words: ''I'm taking up your time, Khalila. I'll live.'

She kept up her soothing touch. One of her hands held his and the other stroked his forearm. He hated himself for liking it. 

'I have no doubt you'll live. I'd like us to aim a little higher than that.' She smiled, and his lips twitched despite himself. 'The inside of your head is your purview but I'd like to make the rest of you more comfortable, if I may.'

He couldn't wrap his strained mind around what she meant for several dizzy seconds, until an assistant approached them with silent efficiency and put a mug on the desk in front of him. 

It smelled like tea. He inhaled the scent and hoped it could scour his senses clean. 

'We can't drink in here,' he said, falling back on being facetious in lieu of anything better. 

She gave him a wry little eyebrow raise. 

'I've got that sorted. Please.' She nudged the tea closer. 'The staff tell me you've been here in the artificial cool since sunrise. This might help you to warm up.'

_Yes, it might_, Wolfe thought, and brought the mug to his lips. It was hot and delicious. 

'I should have thought of that,' he mumbled. 

'You can't think of everything all the time,' she replied with a mischievous grin. He couldn't make his mouth move in a grin back, but he nodded in acknowledgement. He'd told her that just a few days ago, after she'd gotten upset over the initial failure of her proposal to fund postulancy entrance exams for French hopefuls. 

He felt better. More grounded. He downed the rest of the tea, welcoming the scald. 

'I should go home.' He tried to get to his feet, but his legs and back ached and quivered and his head swam so badly that his vision momentarily greyed out. 

He locked his elbows and leaned on the desk and seethed with self-loathing. He'd been fine yesterday. Fine. And now he couldn't fucking get out of his chair. 

His own father was more mobile, and he'd spent forty years in one fucking room. 

Wolfe had only spent a year i -

In his cell. 

And the other rooms. 

Ice crawled down his spine. He shuddered, and grunted with frustration. _Get a grip_. 

'Christopher!' 

That made him blink at her. 

All the children had begun to use Nic’s first name within a month or two of their Library victory, but other than one stunning misjudgement by Dario, he'd managed to restrict them to 'Wolfe'. 

Khalila looked embarrassed, but held his gaze. 

'Sit down, please.' And it was a plea, this time. The child, not the queen. 'You look exhausted.'

He couldn't have stayed standing much longer anyway, so he gave her that victory and sat back down.

He dropped his head into his hands. Now that his mind had steadied, he was all the more aware of everything else. He was dizzy enough that the chair felt soft underneath him, his head ached from where he'd ground his teeth all day, and he was alternately flushing hot and cold. 

Someone settled a blanket around his shoulders, and he couldn't find the right words to argue. It was cozy. 

When he next looked up, it was just him and Khalila. Her assistants and guards were gone. There was another mug of tea next to him. 

She was holding his hand again. 

Khalila didn't do pity, except pitying Dario under certain circumstances, but oh, he wasn't sure he could bear the compassion radiating from her face either. 

'May I keep you company for a little while?' she asked. 

He rolled his eyes, which sent a stab of pain through his eye socket. 

'I've not managed to put you off so far.' He noticed her flex her hand, just a little, in his, and narrowed his eyes. He freed his hand and picked up the mug with both hands as an excuse. 

'My hands are fine,' she protested, and reached for him again. It was his turn to raise his eyebrows smugly and comment, 

'Yes, and I'm fine too.'

She chuckled and shook her head. He liked it when she laughed; it happened so rarely these days. It made her seem her age again. 

'Nic is finished for the day,' she said, with caution in her voice. 'I suggested to him that he might find us up here.' 

Wolfe opened his mouth to say something, he didn't know what, to express his tangled, desperate feelings about Nic seeing him like this, but the flash of her eyes stopped him and he drank more tea instead. It helped to fight the chill that just wouldn’t go away. 

Nic’s footsteps approached much more quickly than Wolfe had expected. He cursed under his breath and shrugged the blanket from around his shoulders. He had to get control of himself. 

“Afternoon,” he said stiffly. Nic pulled up a chair next to him.

“It’s seven o’clock in the evening, Chris, but that’s not bad timekeeping for you in the Reading Room.” Nic’s voice was light, but he put a firm arm around Wolfe’s shoulders and tried to pull him towards him. 

It made Wolfe’s skin crawl, violently, and he tried to shrug Nic off. He couldn’t.

Couldn’t escape – 

“How was the meeting this morning?” he asked, as his heart beat frantically and his blood ran cold. 

Nic sighed. “It was fine, my love.” Then he gasped. “That was why … oh, Chris. You idiot. Come here, please.” Now Nic’s tone was pleading but his grip was still unyielding. Wolfe’s mind fractured and spun, and he fought for words. 

“Let go.”

Nic did, thank all the gods. Wolfe dropped his head onto his folded arms and let himself shake with the misplaced panic. Nic wasn’t going to hurt him. NIc would rather die than hurt him. 

He didn’t want Nic to die. 

“I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.” Nic’s voice was very distant. Wolfe wanted to close his eyes, but he wasn’t far gone enough to believe peace awaited him there, so he just stared at the polished wood of the desk. 

He was freezing cold, enough to make his teeth chatter. He hugged himself tightly. That was the best way to conserve body heat. 

(_The only way_.)

“Here. He took this off when he heard you approaching.” Khalila’s voice. He’d almost forgotten she was there. Seeing him like this. This was so humiliating. 

The warm blanket settled over his shoulders again. Nic’s hand rubbing circles on his back. “There you go, love. This’ll help you warm up.”

It  _ was _ a little better. He couldn’t relax, even so. He didn’t dare. Every nerve in his body was still screaming in alarm. 

That was absurd, of course. He was alone with two people he loved, and, what was more, the two people with the highest security requirements in Alexandria. He wasn’t in any danger.

Except, as today had amply proven, he was in constant danger from his own mind. 

Nic’s hand closed gently around his. “Are you with us, Chris? Let me know.”

The hand, in case he couldn’t speak to reply. 

_ Could _ he speak?

He’d spoken to Khalila, earlier. Several times. Why did his tongue feel like lead in his mouth now?

He gave up and squeezed Nic’s hand. 

“Thank you.” Nic’s hand swept up and down his back, warm and reassuring. “Do you know what’s been happening?”

He wondered how on earth to answer that, before he realised that Nic hadn’t aimed the question at him at all.

“From what I know, he signed into the front desk just after sunrise. Then as the day progressed, he started … talking. And people started listening. Luckily my assistant was here on her research day, and she messaged me. I apologise that she didn’t message you.”

“When you say  _ talking _ …”

Wolfe heard the tone of Nic’s voice, and he tried to raise his head to tell Nic he was fine, but leaving the cocoon of his folded arms felt like trying to lift an impossible weight. 

“Talking to himself. Or to people who weren’t there.” Khalila’s voice was very calm. Wolfe hoped she could pass some of that onto Nic. “I came as soon as I could. He was confused but communicative with me.”

“But now he’s stopped.” Nic’s hand tapped Wolfe’s back. Wolfe flinched, then hated himself for it as Nic drew in an uneven breath. 

“I’ll leave you two here.” Khalila’s chair scraped back. “You have complete privacy; I’ll leave guards on the door until you message me to remove them. I can organise a carriage to wait directly outside the elevator, if you’d like?” 

_ Just another problem for the Archivist and Lord Commander to solve _ , Wolfe thought bitterly. But that was a complex thought, if not a friendly one, and he felt reassured by his capacity to think it. 

More reassuring was Nic’s hand in his hair, joining the one on his back in a slow, steady rhythm of petting. “I’m here, Chris,” Nic said, soft and soothing. “You’re safe with me, in the Reading Room.”

That loosened the tension enough for him to nod. 

“I love you with all my heart and I’m not going to leave your side again today. You don’t need to struggle through this alone.” Nic kissed his forehead. He needed to shave, but that was a nice, familiar sensation on Wolfe’s skin. “I am with you.”

Wolfe finally gave in to the urge to close his eyes. Nic was here. 

He drifted for a weightless, slow moment. Came back. 

Still dreadfully cold, and the hard surface underneath him was making his shoulders and neck ache. 

Nic’s touch and voice was all around him, warm and comforting. It gave him the strength he needed to push himself into a decent sitting position. That was better. That would hurt less in the long-term. He had to fix his own problems where he could. 

“Let me help you, my love,” Nic was whispering to him, in that beautiful gentle Italian that Wolfe loved so much. “Let me make you feel better.”

Wolfe smiled. He kept his eyes closed to better enjoy the feeling of Nic’s hands on him. It felt especially good today. 

He let Nic pull him against his broad, strong chest. Yes, that was just right. Just perfect. He could even smell the sweat that Nic always worked up by the end of a day, no matter how careful he was.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. 

Nic’s tone of voice changed. Sharper. “Open your eyes, Chris. Open them for me.”

Wolfe frowned. He didn’t want to do that. Why would Nic want him to ruin everything by doing that?

He didn’t want to. He didn’t  _ want _ to. 

With a convulsive gasp, he forced his eyelids open, and immediately shielded his eyes from the light with his hands. Tried to curl up to protect his stomach and groin from this unknown threat - daylight was always a threat - but he couldn’t because … because Nic was holding him. 

Real? Not real? He stared at Nic’s face and gasped helplessly for air. 

He could touch Nic, but, but, he could  _ always _ touch him. 

Nic was talking, but that couldn’t be trusted either. 

“I thought so. I thought I'd lost you. Look at me, Chris.”

_No_, Wolfe thought, disjointedly, _no, you were there. You are always, always there_. 

Splintered thoughts whirled, and he caught the flashes from their facets. If the existence of Nic was in doubt, then he would use other prompts. 

Clothes. He was wearing clothes. Well-fitting, comfortable, good-quality clothes. That settled the worst of the terror almost immediately. Just a little more context, then?

He absentmindedly stroked Nic’s cheek as he sought more clues. He should look around, but he wasn’t letting Nic out of his sight. Never. 

Khalila. Beloved girl. She’d been here. There had been. Tea. 

He groped carefully with his free hand, and came across the mug, still pleasantly warm. He sighed with relief, and dropped his head briefly against Nic’s collarbone before raising it again. 

“Reading Room,” he said to Nic, with a very impressively firm voice. “Khalila was here.”

Nic tried to kiss him, then, and he turned his face away even though it was the worst sort of denial. It was all too easy to get lost in Nic’s kisses. 

He steeled himself and looked around. Yes. The Reading Room. Fine. He remembered settling in at this desk, what, a few hours ago?

In hindsight, today hadn’t been his most well-considered decision. 

He looked back at Nic, whose beautiful dark eyes were stormy and distressed. “Let’s go home, my love.”

The thought of what lay in wait at home daunted him for a moment; he knew this wasn’t going to be the last time today that he mistook when he was. But wrapped in Nic’s arms in their bed was the pleasantest place to hallucinate that he would wish for. 

They would make it through until tomorrow. 


	9. Kink: Threesome (Thomas/Morgan/Jess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as Morgan pushed her needy centre against Jess’ firm thigh, he pulled back from the kiss.
> 
> “I dreamed you were dead.” 
> 
> She tried hard not to laugh at his woebegone expression. That would be exceedingly unfair. 
> 
> Modern AU.

Morgan woke slowly; the sort of comfortable, warm wriggly waking that only happened on days without alarm clocks in them. 

She opened her eyes and saw Jess staring at her from the other pillow. “Morning,” she said through a yawn, and shifted in for a cuddle. “‘S Tuesday, right?”

“Yeah.” Jess leaned in for a kiss. Their naked bodies slotted naturally together, his thigh between hers, and Morgan let out a happy sigh. She could definitely go for some sleepy morning sex. 

Possibly turning into more athletic later morning sex - she didn’t have to be at her advanced cybersecurity seminar until three pm and Jess didn’t have, what was it? “Inorganic Concepts and Applications” until one pm. Plenty of time. 

Just as she pushed herself against Jess’ firm thigh, he pulled back from the kiss.

“I dreamed you were dead.” 

She tried hard not to laugh at his woebegone expression. That would be exceedingly unfair. “Nightmares are the worst, aren’t they?”

He nodded and played with a shockingly neat curl of her hair. Most of it resembled a bush. She really needed to shower. But … not quite yet. 

“Well, I’m definitely alive.” She ground against him again, and pulled him in for another kiss. Tried to make it a slow, comforting one. When he pulled back this time, his eyes were sparkling. 

“I can tell you’re alive, yes.” He put his hands on her arse and pulled her even closer. She leaned most of her weight onto him and focused on giving herself a nice, languorous orgasm on his thigh. 

That done, she rested her forehead on his and tried not to pant too much morning breath into his face. 

“I love you,” she said. 

He gasped as she took firm hold of his now-erect dick and eased it between her wet thighs. Gasped again when she grinned at him and tightened her thigh muscles.

“Is there an opposite to waking up on the wrong side of the bed?” It was a rhetorical question, mumbled as he was repositioning for his preferred thrusting angle, but she rolled her eyes and answered anyway,

“Well, obviously. The  _ right  _ side of the bed.”

Jess pressed a messy kiss to her neck and her collar bone. “Don’t be pedantic, Morgan, you're not Thomas.” He bent awkwardly to catch a nipple in his mouth, which distracted her from responding for several seconds. “Speaking of Thomas,” Jess said, taking advantage of her silence, the bastard, “he’s coming round in about an hour.”

“Oh?” 

Morgan envied Jess’ ability to keep his composure and sound completely normal when he was actually now sliding his dick in and out of her thighs so satisfyingly that she was struggling for words. He wasn’t even near her clit. Jesus. 

He brought his mouth very close to her ear. “What do you say, we pretend we forgot that he was coming?” 

“Yes. Brilliant. Let’s do that.” She whipped her head sideways and bit his cheek, just to get some of the tension out. 

Despite the fact that Thomas and Jess had been inseparable from the day they had first met, Morgan had bagged the big sweetheart first with a blow-job outside a club a year ago. 

Jess argued that didn’t count, because neither of them remembered it that well, and that in fact,  _ he _ had won only six months ago when he and Thomas had  _ finally _ ended up snogging on the sofa. 

Morgan said that absolutely didn’t count because why the hell had Jess stopped at kissing?

They had asked Thomas for his opinion when they’d first got him properly into bed with them two months ago, but he had merely given them a wry look and said, 

“That’s really very subjective. Can it not be a draw?”

Which was a hopeless answer, really. 

Now that she’d remembered it, she rehashed that argument while they made breakfast and had a desultory attempt at last night’s washing up. 

“I didn’t deliberately stop at kissing!” Jess protested, handing her back a bowl to wash again. She took it off him grumpily. Fuck the washing up. Fuck that stupid dried-on speck of pasta sauce. “It just didn’t feel like the right time!”

Morgan resisted the urge to throw said bowl at Jess’ head. Barely. “It  _ never _ feels like the right time! You’ve never have slept with me if I hadn’t climbed on top of you and pretty much inserted your dick myself!” 

Jess grinned, but he looked sheepish. “I just want to make sure no-one feels pressured, that’s all.”

She sighed and grabbed his head for a long, wet kiss. Her hands were wet too. Oops. “You are adorable and Thomas is even more adorable and by God  _ someone _ is beating up my cervix this morning or you’ll regret it.”

Jess’ eyes gleamed. “Do it yourself. One for the wank-bank.” 

She laughed and flicked more bubbles at him. “I’m not flattered, you wanked to fucking  _ Wolfe _ .” 

Jess went bright red. “That was _one time_.”

“Was it?” She pressed herself against Jess and groped his arse. “I know, I know, you only got to stare at him for one term. I bet you imagine him criticising your technique as you’re beating it.”

“Oh my fucking god, shut  _ up _ .” 

“Is that why you won’t go for Thomas? Do you like your men twice your age?” She let out a delighted groan as Jess bit her hard on the neck and shoved his hand down her tracksuit bottoms. 

“Why do you never just ask for a shag like a normal human?” he growled

“I do ask. I ask all the time.” She gasped as his dry fingers snagged deliciously on her clit. “You love shutting me up, don’t pretend otherwise.” 

“Maybe I do.” He pushed her against the kitchen counter, and she gripped it tightly as he shifted his hand so that two fingers were fucking her and his thumb was on her clit.

“And anyway,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, “who wants to be normal?”

After that, she blew him, pushing him back against the washing machine. It was only polite. 

She checked the clock as he put his head between her legs in return. “Thomas is supposed to be here in half an hour,” she warned him. Her voice was a little hoarse. Nice. 

Jess looked up at her with the most astonishingly devilish glint in his eyes. “I can definitely stay down here for half an hour, Morgan.”

Oh,  _ fuck _ . 

They lost track of time in the end, and Jess’ ears were kind of covered anyway, so when Thomas knocked on the door Morgan gasped, 

“He’s here!” and they staggered together to the sofa. 

Thomas knocked again. Jess tried to move his head. Definitely not. Morgan clamped her thighs tightly around him and prayed her voice would sound steady.

“It’s not locked, Thomas!”

Thomas’ heavy footsteps announced his approach. He was whistling. Morgan pushed herself further onto Jess’ mouth with anticipation. 

Of all the reactions she’d headily thought about, though, she wasn’t expecting Thomas to  _ laugh _ . 

“Are you two aware that the curtains are open and you can be seen from the street?” 

“I don’t give a single flying fuck.” Morgan flung her head back and groaned her way through yet another orgasm. She’d lost count a long time ago. 

Jess moved away and stood up. The cool draft from the hallway, with its stupid ill-fitting door, actually felt quite nice between her legs. Ticklish. 

She let her head loll to one side and watched Jess approach Thomas to greet him. 

Thomas chuckled again. “You’re all sticky,  _ schatz _ .” 

“Oh yeah. Sorry.” Jess raised his hand to wipe his mouth. Morgan giggled as she watched the futile attempt: Jess’ face was glistening from cheekbones to collarbones. 

“Never mind.” Thomas leaned down and kissed Jess warmly. “Is this a closed party, or …” He trailed off. 

When Morgan had said he was adorable, she’d meant it. 

“The party is very much open, Thomas!” She splayed her legs wide, and dissolved into giggles at her own wit. 

“Sorry. She’s pretty much had non-stop orgasms all morning, she's high as a kite,” she heard Jess mutter. 

“Ah.” Thomas’ tone changed a little. It made her shiver deliciously. “I am reinforcements, then.”

'Oh,  _ reinforce _ me, Thomas,' she cooed, then cackled so loudly that it echoed in the hallway. 

He gave her a fond, exasperated look, and walked over to her. 'Up you get.'

She took his hand, but gave him an exaggerated pout and tried to tug him down. She stood about as much chance of doing that as moving a mountain. 

'Come on, now. You know I'm not fond of being on display.' He tugged back, very gently. Morgan dwelt for a tantalising moment on how if Thomas was a different sort of guy, he'd use all that meticulously controlled strength to lift her up, carry her to the room and throw her onto the bed. 

Thomas would certainly do that for her if she asked, but that spoiled the fun somewhat. 

'We could just shut the curtains,' Jess said. She smiled at her beloved boyfriend. 

'I love it when you problem solve.'

Thomas shook his head. “Bedroom.”

“Ooh, Thomas is being firm.” 

Even Jess smirked at that, and cast a sideways look at Thomas’ crotch in his neat corduroy trousers. Thomas went pink.

She relented after that and got to her feet, only to worm into Thomas’ strong arms and threaded her fingers through his shaggy golden hair. She stretched on tiptoe to kiss him, and he bent down to oblige. 

“Hi,” she said, and licked her lips.

“Hello,” he said with an answering smile. His hand was resting politely on the small of her back, so she moved it down to her bare arse. He cupped it.

“Carry me, big guy?” she said, and jumped before he’d replied. 

“Are you sure she’s not still drunk?” Thomas enquired of Jess as they walked to the bedroom.

“No.” Morgan tried to tamp down her sillier orgasm-soused impulses. She didn’t want to scare Thomas off. “I’m just happy, that’s all.” She wrapped her legs more tightly around Thomas’ waist. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re happy.” His voice rumbled in his chest, against her ear.

As he set her down, she slid closer than necessary and found to her satisfaction that he was developing a hard-on. 

(Oops. He was going to need to utilise the spare shirt he kept over here. She’d left a right slick.)

“So.” She clapped her hands together for attention, then stripped off her pajama top. “I was thinking you both fuck me at once?”

“What is it like, being in your head, Morgan?” Thomas asked rhetorically. He had his hand in his pocket. She hoped he was adjusting himself. 

“Not bad, actually. I just like getting what I want.” 

“And you deserve that.” The soft look in Thomas’ eyes melted her, and for a second she felt overly emotional. She turned away and busied herself getting onto the bed.

“We’ve not done both at once before.” Jess clearly hadn’t been listening to them. He wasn’t even looking at Morgan’s chest, which was unusual for him. He was staring at the bed, frowning, and moving his hands in odd shapes. Problem-solving again. 

“Oh, don’t fret,” Thomas said, as he finally began to undo his shirt. “I can see several options.”

Jess threw his hands up in the air. “Of course you can. Mr Visualisation.”

Thomas grinned and tossed his shirt into the corner of the room, revealing his pelted barrel chest. “Don’t be sour just because I can do molecular modelling in my head.”

Morgan watched delightedly as Jess marched over to Thomas and snogged him aggressively. It was somehow all the hotter for how Thomas allowed himself to be impinged upon as if Jess wasn’t a lanky beanpole. 

Eventually, with Thomas and Jess both at full hardness, they positioned themselves on the bed how Thomas said would work the best. Thomas on his back with Morgan on top, and Jess taking her arse from behind. 

“Shit, hold on,” Jess said, just as Morgan was snuggling up to Thomas. “Condoms.”

Morgan settled for non-penetrative snuggling until Jess got back - they kept Thomas’ condoms in a drawer in the kitchen. 

She kissed Thomas’ stubbly cheek. He always had stubble if he’d shaved more than a couple of hours ago. 

“I love that I have two lovely men who remember condoms of their own accord.”

He kissed her in return and put his hand gently on the small of her back. “Of course we do. We respect you. It’s your body; you get to choose what goes inside it.”

That was very close to his lecturing tone, and lectures on this topic from Thomas tended to make her well up, so she just kissed him again instead and ground herself against the stunning erection underneath her. 

Jess came back at last with the condoms.

“Morgan, did  _ you _ put these in with the dishcloths?” he asked as he and Thomas rolled on their respective sizes. 

“No.” Morgan had shifted just enough to let Thomas’ hand do what it needed to, and she watched the application greedily. Arousal had never really left her, but it was certainly back with a vengeance now. If they weren’t running out of time before Jess had to leave, she’d have asked for a round of blowjobs first.

Maybe later. Or tomorrow. They had all the time in the world, really. 

“And I swear there’s one missing …” Jess grabbed the lube from the bedside cabinet and climbed onto the bed. Morgan knelt up and made a pleased sound as Jess touched her boobs and stomach with soft, easy familiarity. 

“There probably is,” Thomas said. “You let Dario sleep on the sofa the other night, didn’t you?”

“Last time he gets to call me a thief,” Jess mumbled as he nibbled the back of her neck and shoulders. 

“No, but …” She shrugged free of the boys and dived for her phone. “I should warn Khalila. Those will fall straight off him.”

Thomas reached for her. Her breasts weren’t small, but he could hold one almost entirely in his hand. That redirected her attention rather well. Next Jess plastered himself to her back.

“I’m sure Khalila is used to assuming Dario will do the stupidest thing possible in all circumstances, love.”

She still had misgivings, but the uneasy feeling in her gut was quickly replaced by ecstatic, stretching fullness as Thomas picked her up and carefully lowered her again. She was soaking and so he slid in easily. Her higher-pitched groan was drowned out by his deep breathless moan. 

“Good?” she asked cheekily. He blinked at her and nodded. He was already pink down to his Adam’s apple. God, she always got taken by surprise how quickly he ramped up. “Right. Jess?”

Jess tweaked her nipple and kissed her shoulder. “Straight in, or prep?”

“Oooh, straight in, please.” She wiggled her arse at him. That made Thomas groan again. “Oops, sorry.”

“This was a good position choice,” Thomas said. His eyes were darker than usual, all pupil. “Mainly stimulates you. I can last better like this.”

Jess must have been warming the lubricant while they’d been chatting, because there wasn’t the cold slide she’d been anticipating as he eased himself in until he was flush against her back. Slowly and carefully, but not too much. They did this particular act rather a lot. 

“Shit, tighter than normal,” Jess mumbled into her shoulder.

No, there was no chill, just an almost overwhelming sense of fullness that made her slur out a handful of nonsense syllables and go so limp that she was grateful for Thomas’ hands on her hips and Jess’ arms around her boobs and belly. 

The closest sensation she could draw upon for comparison was being fisted. 

(Oh shit, she needed to get Thomas to fist her sometime.)

Pressure and fullness and so much stretch. Every nerve ending confused and firing. Heat washing over her in blissful, dizzying waves. She moaned gutturally. 

“Good?” Jess asked. His hands roamed over her chest and stomach. Thomas was watching her intently too. Looking after her.

“ _ Move _ ,” she grunted ungratefully at them. Jess moved first, in and out. She groaned, but so did Thomas. 

“Oh, you can feel me too?” That was Jess’ interested voice. Fuck Jess for having spare brain at a time like this.  _ Fuck  _ him. 

“Mm.” The pink had spread down Thomas’ neck and across his chest. “Like frotting. Except with … hm, I don’t know the anatomy there …”

“Less anatomy!” Morgan gasped. “More fucking!”

Thomas thrust his hips up and she keened. “But this is anatomy, _ Täubchen, _ ” he said with a grin. “Practical anatomy.”

Soon no-one had any breath for wise-cracks. 

Morgan was overwhelmed by heat from head to toe, from her stuffed centre to her glistening skin as she slid between her equally sweaty lovers; consumed and burning. It was  _ wonderful _ . 

She gloried in the way her head wobbled back and forth almost painfully as one by one, her boys lost their damned tenderness and started chasing their own climaxes. She felt like she was only partially tethered to the world. Like at any second she might just float away on a cloud of pure sensation. 

She’d had about thirty of her own orgasms by now. She was quivering all over and panting hard from the effort. 

It was only fair to let them have their turn, so she carefully leant forwards to make her position better for Thomas to please himself. And if that also made it easier for him to crash against her cervix, well, all the better. 

Thomas was the first to fall over the edge, no surprise there. He grabbed the duvet and gave a long grunting exhale that was so low-pitched that Morgan could feel it shudder through her.

And through her, into Jess? She reached behind to grab one of his hands, which had taken Thomas’ position on her hips. 

“All right?” They were both shaking so much that their hands could barely stay joined.

Jess gasped wordlessly in response, then breathed an only-slightly-more-coherent string of swear-words into her hair. 

“Come on,” she urged him. Groped further back to roughly caress his thigh.

He came barely a minute later, with that delicious wobbling wail that he only let go when he couldn’t care less how he sounded. 

Afterwards they rested in a sweaty, gasping bundle of limbs in the bed. At least arguments about the wet spot were pointless. The entire bed was a wet spot. 

Morgan felt gnawingly empty now, and achy in a good way, and was very, very tempted to grab Thomas’ hand, which was tenderly stroking her incredibly messy hair, and ram it inside her instead. 

But, no. This was nice, too. They’d positioned her between them so that she lounged back against Thomas’ soft warm bulk while Jess kissed pretty much every inch of her he could reach. 

“Your tongue must be aching,” she pointed out, stroking his hair. He rested his cheek on her stomach and looked up at her with dancing eyes.

“Oh no. I get to kiss my girlfriend. What a calamity.” 

“It might never happen again,” Morgan said with mock-gravity. 

Jess snorted. “Better make this count, then, hey?” He slid down and blew on her oversensitive clit and she convulsed. He looked up at her. His smile was devilish. 

“Oh, shit,  _ no _ -”

“Grab her hands, Thomas.”

“Do not grab my  _ fucking _ hands, oh my  _ God _ .” She screamed with desperate, anticipatory laughter as Thomas did just that. 

“And her legs, Jess?”

Jess grinned. “Nah. Who needs oxygen? Hips, yes.” 

He blew on her clit again. It stung and fizzed and she tried to snap her hips forwards in reaction, but Thomas was immovable. 

This was Jess' revenge, wasn't it? For her teasing earlier that he never took the initiative? 

“Jess.  _ Jess _ .  _ Enough _ ,” she whined as he carefully made sure her clit was hooded before he kissed it. “Jess. No.” She squirmed and whined again, like an animal. Heat rose inside her again. Sweat was literally rolling down her face in globules. Her eyes burnt. “Please.”

“Please what?” Thomas nuzzled her cheek, teasing her how Jess would, if he'd had his mouth free. “Please stop?” Jess slowed, just for a second. “Please keep going?” Jess sucked, hard, and she cried out again as the painful pressure surged. The gaping emptiness inside her where she had been so perfectly full before only made this exquisite torture a thousand times worse.

“Please. Please, please, please, please,  _ please _ .” 

Jess just about tore that final orgasm out of her; a dreadful, wonderful sandpaper relief of tension, then he hooked his fingers loosely inside her and shuffled up to hug her while she sobbed.

“I hate you,” she said through hiccoughs and deliberately rubbed snot on his shoulder. Though, quite frankly, they were all so slick with sweat she wasn’t sure he’d noticed. He beamed at her, his chest rising and falling almost as much as hers. 

They lay together for a while longer, silently caressing each other and feeling their bodies cooling and calming, until Jess stopped kissing Thomas and reached for her phone to check the time. At which point, he swore and staggered off to the shower. 

“Gonna be late!”

They sniggered at him and settled back down. 

“Are you going to the Halloween thing tonight?” Thomas asked with a yawn. She massaged his scalp and he hummed with pleasure.

“Down at the Hive? Yeah.” Morgan hated the athletic club’s bar, but she did love dressing up. “Khalila’s promised to cover me in orange body paint. Gonna be a pumpkin.” She yawned too. Damn Thomas. 

“Cover you?” Thomas stroked the curve of one boob with his index finger and gave her an unusually mischievous look with his gorgeous blue eyes. 

She giggled. “Yep. Orange tits. Khalila’s going to touch my tits.  _ Definitely _ . Maybe we’ll let you all watch.” She laughed again at his sleepily aroused expression. “Don’t tell me you’re going as a lumberjack again. That’s such a fucking cop out.”

Thomas gave her a mock-injured look, so she kissed him to make it go away. 

It was their last year at university - but only the first term of that time. Endings and beginnings, all at once, surrounded by the people she loved. Right now, she couldn’t be happier. 


	10. Alpha/Beta/Omega-verse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is incomplete; there is more to come! There is only minimal actual porn omg.

Khalila, Dario and Santi sat at a private dinner. 

Not for the first time in her life, Khalila guiltily wished for some of the confidence that seemed to come with drinking alcohol. 

She tried to look at Dario for support, but got sidetracked yet again by Santi. His pheromones were filling the room. Her brain interpreted it as a gorgeous woodsy, natural smell of leather and smoke. 

He gave her a wry look, and pushed his chair back. "Forgive me, Khalila. I can see I'm causing you discomfort."

Discomfort is not the word I would have used, she thought, and tried very hard to think of unarousing things. 

"No, please, stay for a moment, Nic." She took a slow, calming breath as Santi inclined his greying head and leaned back in his seat. "We just wanted to ... to ensure that you're well."

She'd let it slip away from her again. She nudged Dario's foot under the table. 

"You're a couple of days into heat and Wolfe's not around," Dario said obediently. This was a double act they very often used, where Dario was far blunter than she was ever allowed to be. 

Santi's eyes narrowed. Not quite angry, but put on edge. "Stating the obvious with such grace, Dario." Perspiration shone at his temples.

Dario grinned, all teeth. "It's one of my many talents."

Santi shifted his puzzled gaze to her. Then his eyes widened. "I trust you've not noticed any performance issues, Archivist?" His pheromone output was so high that Khalila could almost taste his sudden worry souring the leather scent.

She shook her head immediately. "Absolutely not, Commander. You continue to be my rock."

Santi scoffed and drummed his fingers on the table. "I should hope so. I've been having heats for longer than you two have been alive."

Khalila sensed a response forming to that, and kicked Dario quite hard. 

"I have absolutely no concerns about your work." The repeated reassurance seemed to soothe Santi a little, but he still crossed his arms protectively over his chest and fixed her with a hard look. 

"What's this about, then, Khalila? If it's not an intervention to check that decrepit old Uncle Nic can still handle a normal bodily function?" His lip curled with just the hint of a snarl. 

Khalila's tongue tangled for a moment in her mouth, tied by the way that his scent had swung hard to bitter smoke. She wanted to put a comforting hand on his clenched fist so much that it made her hackles rise. 

Which, of course, looked like an aggressive alpha response to that snarl. 

Santi shoved his chair back and got to his feet. "Well, this conversation's going nowhere nice," he announced to the room at large. The whites of his eyes flashed. "I'll withdraw. Archivist, Scholar Santiago." He nodded formally.

Khalila's mind raced in useless circles. "Are you nesting?" she blurted out to his retreating back.

Santi whirled on his heel to stare at her with wide eyes. She could tell Dario was also staring. She went hot from top to toe. To enquire about an omega's heat nest was only a few steps up from blatantly asking to share it. 

"Of course I'm fucking nesting, did you miss the bit where I've been having perfectly successful heats for longer than you've been alive?" Santi's voice was sharp, but his posture was looser suddenly, and his scent was creeping back to pleasant. He looked completely nonplussed. 

"You're a soldier. You probably just add an extra blanket to the bed and call it done," Dario said mockingly. 

"Got a whole damned room for it, have you, princeling?" Santi snapped in return.

"I do, actually." Dario's smug smirk faded. He cast a quick look at Khalla, who gladly gave him the reins of this conversation. She'd hardly been doing very well with it. "Look, Nic." Dario leaned forwards and balanced his left ankle on his right knee. "We know unpartnered heats are shit. We want to offer a helping hand. Hands. Mouth. If you want it."

Khalila couldn't stifle her giggle. He'd done so well, right up until his imagination had started to kick back in, and now his face was bright red. 

"Well?" Dario said roughly, crossing his legs more tightly as if he could hide his arousal that way, as if he wasn't wafting his own scent through the room. 

"Well," Santi repeated, blankly. 

Khalila wondered for a heartstopping second whether they'd got this wrong. They'd both seen Santi take partners outside of Wolfe, but sharing a heat was something different altogether, and perhaps he still viewed them as children anyway.

"Well," he said again. "I didn't expect that." He rubbed his forearm a couple of times - a gesture of heat-induced skin-sensitivity that Khalila was very familiar with from Dario, and the first sign of heat that he'd lowered his guard enough to show them. He licked his lips. Khalila tasted leather strongly in the back of her throat again as his pheromones flared. "I'll discuss it with Chris tonight."

So it would be tomorrow, tomorrow night most likely. That was at least day three for Santi, if not more; they'd been conversative in their estimates because it was hard to judge.

Dario's mind was obviously running along the same lines, because he demanded, 

"How are you so functional? I can't handle the world by about day two."

Khalila saw the urge to make a joke, and probably a mocking one, cross Santi's face, but it faded. Instead, he shrugged. 

"I'm a soldier."

Dario stood abruptly and Santi twitched. Dario ducked his head to one side pacifyingly. 

"May I?" asked Dario, as he knelt and reached for Santi's hand. 

Santi looked at Khalila, who nodded. It was a nice touch, if unnecessary. Santi knew she allowed Dario other partners. 

Her throat tightened with excitement. Discussion with Wolfe still to come or not, this was as good as an agreement. 

There were a few different ways to mingle scents. Dario had always preferred the wrist. He kissed the underside of Santi's wrist, murmured his thanks and made to stand. 

Santi slid his hand forwards and curled his fingers tightly in Dario's hair, keeping him on his knees. 

It allowed the wrist point to mingle with the point behind Dario's ear - but more importantly Santi knew enough of her and Dario's private life to know what it meant for Dario. 

Santi looked at her again, gaze dark and heated and more than a little triumphant, as Dario's breath shuddered out of him in a faint, frantically muffled mewl. Their mingled scents were so strong that Khalila felt faint. 

"Stop it." There was no command in her voice. "You're making my teeth ache."

Oops. That was true, but she definitely hadn't meant to say it out loud. 

Something slipped in Santi's expression then, and for a second she saw the burning need that she would expect from an omega multiple days into his heat. Then he mastered himself. He let go of Dario and bowed.

She was relieved he didn't try to offer his scent to her. Not only would it have been damnably rude to Wolfe, she wasn't sure she could have held onto her splintering self-control. 

"We'll await your message," she said. He nodded, then hesitated.

"Even if it's a no, this time, thank you for the offer."

The door closed behind Santi. 

Dario gave her a molten-eyed look from his position on the floor, and she frantically flung herself onto him to address their pressing mutual needs.

* * *

“So, when you said the emergency High Garda room wouldn’t be the lap of luxury, you actually meant that it would be a cold, unhygienic, bare cell of a room?”

“Shut up, Dario,” she and Santi said, almost in unison. 

She could see Dario’s point; the room held only a wide bed with a visible rubber sheet on the bottom, a cupboard full of dry snacks, and a walled-off shower area. It looked clean, at least.

On the other hand, every time she inhaled all she could register was Santi’s high, rich heat scent and quite frankly she wasn’t sure she was going to make it to the bed. 

“Nic,” she said, and put a hand on his arm. He twitched all over, and took in a short breath. Still he stayed tense and upright, almost at attention. She stroked his forearm, up to his firm bicep. Wanted to plaster herself against him and devour his mouth, but resisted. “Are you all right, Nic? Are you still comfortable with me being here?”

“Yes.” He leant his head back against the wall he stood near and closed his eyes. “Sorry.” He breathed deeply, in and out. 

“Is it difficult to relax?” Khalila asked. She wasn’t surprised to see him nod. Unfamiliar surroundings, unfamiliar heat partners, and multiple days spent holding himself in the most impressive check she’d ever seen. She tugged his forearm gently. “Let’s get you more comfortable, shall we?”

He staggered when he moved away from the wall. His face paled. 

“Nic?” 

“I’m fine, Khalila.” 

That’s the most useless phrase in all of human history, she thought. 

“Dried fruit for you, then. Eat up.” Dario’s voice made her jump – it was embarrassing to admit that she’d already forgotten her beloved was even in the room. “Bet you’ve not eaten properly in days,” he continued, as Santi shakily took a few pieces of fruit from Dario’s laden hands. Santi made a non-committal sound and chewed the fruit. 

“You eat fine when you’re in heat,” Khalila said to Dario, confused, almost accusatory. He rolled his eyes. 

“Because you hand-feed me delicious things, flower. If I was on my own? Having to cook for myself?”

“You’d starve in normal life, let alone in heat,” Khalila mumbled, but she got his point. 

Santi made an irritated sound. “Stop fussing.” He walked towards the bed. If she hadn’t just seen him nearly faint, she’d never have believed it from his stride. But he sank down on the hard rubber mattress like it was made of feathers, and uncomplainingly took more fruit from Dario’s hands. 

She sat down next to him and rubbed his back. And once she was doing that, so close to him, it was the simplest thing in the world to press her lips to his shoulder and up to his neck, pressing her nose and mouth against his scent there. 

He groaned and tilted his head back to give her better access. She nosed higher on his neck, under his chin, feeling the warm sanding of his stubble on her nose and cheek. The urge to bare her teeth was very nearly overwhelming, but it was unforgivably rude to neck-bite a mated omega. 

“I just checked. That showerhead is detachable. I will spray you both.” Dario put his hand on her shoulder and she choked on a soft growl. 

Mine.  _ My _ omega. 

But he was Dario and he was hers too, and … and what was he saying?

“Pardon, darling?” She blinked at Dario, who was grinning.

“Is this what you’re like with me? It’s much funnier when I’m lucid.”

“Shut up.” Khalila took a deep breath in to centre herself. That was a mistake, as Santi’s scent filled her lungs. Her arousal was starting to become  _ exceedingly _ evident between her legs.

“I’m sorry, Khalila. It’s my fault. You’ve not come into a four-day-old heat before. Chris says it feels a lot like a sudden rut.”

She kissed his neck rather than responding. How was he so coherent? 

“Well,” she said, slow and careful, “there’s only one way to alleviate a rut and there’s certainly only one way to help a four day heat.” She leaned in and kissed him, and fumbled for his belt. It was stiff. She wanted to rip it off. Rip  _ everything _ off him. 

“I’ll sort that for you,  _ carida _ ,” Dario said, as if from a distance. 

Santi kissed her hard in response, his stubble rubbing against her face, his arms creeping around her. 

Somehow, between the three of them, they got Santi’s trousers, underwear and boots off. She pushed a hand between his legs and nearly lost her head completely when he pushed against her and let out a little, choked, repressed mewl. 

_Yes_, crowed her baser instincts - both of them, domme and alpha, because despite the stereotypes they weren’t identical urges - _beg me to help you. Offer yourself to me_.

“Stomach or back?” she said, barely coherent through a growl. 

“Oh, fuck, Khalila.” Santi leaned in to her kiss, to her hand. He was shivering, his skin flushed and dewy, his eyes finally dark and hazy with unleashed heat.

He was not obeying his order.

“ _ Down _ .” Or, she thought she said it. There was a  _ lot _ of growling. 

He flopped backwards instantly and presented himself.  _ Good _ . She purred with satisfaction and hurried into position. The bed was just the right height for this, for her to stand here and slide in just like that. 

Santi moaned as she sank into his warm, wet, welcoming centre. 

The world was a blur after that. Just her hands on Santi’s hips and thighs and her rapid, thumping thrusts, and Santi’s beautiful groans ringing in her ears and Santi’s scent filling every speck of space in her senses. 

Good. Good boy. Good omega, underneath her, around her, vulnerable and needy and wanting.

She came back to her senses some time later, panting and gulping for air. Santi lay splayed in front of her and she purred again at the view. She was still buried inside him, still firm enough for that, and had no inclination to move. 

A hand touched her shoulder and she snarled so loudly that it hurt her throat. All her hackles rose and her teeth bared and she tracked the trajectory she would need to incapacitate this rival.

_All mine. You can’t have him_. 

She was just enough back to herself to register too late that the figure was Dario, as he very sensibly dropped to his knees and bared his neck and pushed his stomach forwards, submitting in every way he knew how. 

The scent of frightened omega filled the air, Dario’s scent turned foul and bitter, and her stomach roiled and her instincts screeched at her.

She tried to catch her breath, tried to pull her lips down off her teeth. Couldn’t quite do either of them, so covered her mouth with her hands until she felt like she could speak. 

“Sorry,” she gasped. It was her turn to shiver, now. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to!” She looked back at Santi, and her stomach twisted again as she saw the bloody marks of her fingernails on one thigh, and finger-shaped bruises already forming. 

“Come here. Dario, you too.” Santi’s voice was slurred and he was still out of breath himself, but it was easy enough to follow his orders regardless, now that she was more herself, now that she was_ appalled_ at herself. 

They curled up together. Khalila saw that Dario had settled on Santi’s far side, away from her, and the horror of that jolted a sob from her. 

“Ssh, my dear.” Santi stroked her head and gently nuzzled her cheek. “It’s all right. Calm down. You’re all right.”

She shook her head. “I nearly attacked Dario! I hurt you!”

“You what?” There was genuine confusion in Santi’s eyes and voice. Then he laughed. “A couple of scratches?” He nuzzled her chin and neck and gave her a little, deferential kitten lick. “I don’t feel hurt. I feel quite well-fucked.” He blinked. “Forgive my language.”

She struggled through the soothing effect of his touch and his happy, satisfied scent. No. She’d lost control. “Dario?” She reached over Santi’s body.

“Right here,  _ querida _ .” He took her hand and kissed it. “Always here.”

She somehow scrambled over Santi and squeezed herself between them so that she could wrap every limb around Dario and shiver some more. 

“Instincts suck,” he said, his voice muffled by his face being pressed half into the pillow by her embrace. “It’s fine. I should have known not to interrupt even the tail-end of the first rut.”

“I scared you,” she snivelled. Dario shrugged.

“I didn’t make sure you were all the way back. Really, love. It was my fault.” He grinned. “You’d think I’d know by now that you’re a possessive alpha.”

She pressed her nose against the mating scar on his neck, prompting the glands there to release another waft of pheromones. She closed her eyes and let her other senses, still heightened by the madness of rut, evaluate them. 

No more terrible rotten scent of fear. Only his usual bitter-sweet saffron and dark chocolate, the latter slightly deeper than usual with arousal.

That calmed her more than his words, even while it made her smile. 

“Only you could still be turned on right now,” she mumbled.

“Oh, my sunshine, you’ve gone nose-blind to the commander if you can say that and mean it.” 

Santi had curled round her from behind and was purring in a deep and soothing rumble. The picture of contentment and care. But yes. Once she rolled away from Dario, she could still smell the undercurrent in Santi’s smoky scent. Could still see the sheen of sweat on his flushed skin and the unfocused look in his eyes. 

“You did well, dear,” he said, and touched her cheek. “It’s my fault. I didn’t think about the pheromone overload.”

“But now we know,” Dario said from behind them. “We’ve got a little while until the next peak, right, Nic?”

“No, I could definitely get ferociously fucked again any time, including now.” Santi stretched. His grin looked brittle, somehow.

Interest stirred between her legs. She tried to ignore it. Yes, it was easier to do so now. 

“Watch your language,” she said with a smile. 

“Oh, yes, she’s back now,” Dario called over her shoulder, and laughed. “So, I propose we do all the shit we should have done  _ before _ you two overwhelmed each other. Like, actually undress. Shower. Get more food into Nic.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need more food. What are you, a beta?” Santi grumbled. He had shifted to lying in a position which was definitely supposed to entice Khalila to climb on top of him. It was indeed very enticing, but she could resist now. 

“I  _ feel _ like a beta, fucking hell, since when am I the common sense in the room with you two? Now, shut up and stop seducing my poor wife or I won’t suck you off in the shower.” 

That incongruous sentence made Khalila start to giggle. She sat up, and only then really registered Dario’s point about getting undressed. Nic was still in his shirt, jacket and socks, and she had done nothing more than shuck her underwear. Even her headscarf was still on her head, although only just. 

“Right. Yes. Shower.” She stood up. 

Santi was a little slow to join her and Dario in the shower half of the room, so she took the opportunity to put her hands deep into Dario’s soft curls and kiss him and whisper,

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

He pushed his cheek against hers. “You know I’d let you know if I wanted out.”

“Hmm.” She grabbed a handful of his delectable bottom. “You are very good at that.”

He grinned. “I’ve been well-trained.” 

Santi walked past them without a word. Khalila idly admired his bottom. It was a very different shape to Dario’s. Very muscular, little fat. Probably too painful for her to bite. What a pity.

She caught a waft of their combined scents, and the base part of her mind rumbled with satisfaction. Yes. Her omega. 

But both she and Dario winced as Santi turned on the shower, as steam flooded the space and heat radiated out of the spray. 

“Nic, don’t you think that’s a bit hot?” Dario called. He stuck his hand into the spray and sent Khalila a panicked look.

She let the protective possessive alpha brain rise again.

“Get out.” She turned the faucet off, stopping the flow of near-boiling water. 

“What the fuck?” Santi was giving her the full-blown commander look, but that didn’t work when her gaze was wandering over the pulse in his neck and tracing the paths of water droplets down his bulky, furry body and wondering what he would look like presenting on his knees, this time, ready for her to bury herself in him and lean over to bite his neck until he flooded the room with sated smoke and - 

Dario caught her eye, somehow and he made an ‘enough’ sign.. His pupils were blown wide and his nostrils flared. 

Right. Right, that was ... probably enough stimulation of the inner alpha. Ahem.

“Come here.” It was the full alpha growl, and it should have been almost irresistible for someone four days into heat. But, no, as she’d half-expected, Santi frowned and folded his arms and went tense and still. 

With some difficulty, she reined herself back in.

“You continue to be exceptional,” she said gently, and stepped towards him. She could see the very, very fine tremors racking his entire body. “You know you’re not really cold, don’t you? You're burning up.” She licked the salty hollow of his collarbone. “Relax, Nic.”

His trembling redoubled, yet still he insisted: “I’m fine.” 

She pressed herself against him, all her bare body against his. 

Santi gave in and clasped her tightly to him. His pulse was racing and he was breathing fast. His pheromones weren’t spiking to full intensity yet; his defenses against his baseline heat reactions were just crumbling.

“There we go,” she said. “That’s better, isn’t it? All this skin-to-skin contact.”

“Don’t you dare lie and say you haven’t been craving that like air.” This time, out of rut, Dario’s presence and voice was warm and familiar. He went on tiptoes to reach over her and kiss Santi softly. 

Santi freed his mouth and whined, very gently. “I don’t want you two getting upset again. I can hold it together.” 

Dario caught Khalila’s eye. His amused gaze showed he knew what she was going to say. She said it to Dario a lot.

“But I don’t  _ want _ you to hold yourself together, Nic.” She reached down and gently toyed with his soft opening. Automatically Santi wrapped his leg around her waist to help her do that better, which, given their very different heights, might have knocked her back if Dario hadn’t braced her. “I want you to let me take you apart.” 

She pushed in enough fingers to cause some resistance - four. “Don’t you want me to take you apart, Nic?” She stretched on tiptoes to scrape her teeth across his neck. “Don’t you want to relax and fall apart and stop thinking about anything except for how good it feels?”

“ _ Cazzo Madre di Dio _ ,” Santi said shakily, knocking his head back against the warm tile wall. 

“Can’t get away with swearing in another language, not in this company,” Dario said cheerfully. But he tilted his head and kissed Santi again, and Khalila kept her fingers working inside Santi. She could feel his legs shaking, badly.

Dario reached for the faucet and twisted it. A cool, fine spray began to fall. “Let’s get you cooled off,” he said, coaxingly. “Get you comfortable. Take the edge off.”

“Please,” Nic said at last. Barely above a whisper, as if his desperation wasn’t evident in his heaving chest and flushed skin, and in the ease with which Khalila was starting to work her fist into him. 

“You take care of us so well,” she cooed. “Now it’s our turn.”


	11. Kink: Incest (Dario/Alvaro/Ramon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously this still has a lot yet to be written, it will eventually hit the Overstimulation and Spit-roast prompts, but I thought I'd give you what there is for now!

It was late at night, and Dario had finally had enough to drink that Alvaro could reliably beat him at cards. 

“All right, that’s enough, let’s call it a night before you goad me into losing all my money.” Dario started sorting the cards. His fingers were clumsy.

Alvaro laughed as he threw his hand of cards at Dario. One card hit him softly in the face. “Such a sore loser. You make stupid decisions perfectly well on your own.”

“You’re the sore one; you have to drug me in order to win.” Dario sat back in his armchair and tried to shuffle the cards at anything vaguely resembling his normal speed. Alvaro said something in response but Dario wasn’t really listening.

He’d thought earlier that his cousin looked handsome in his formal wear, but he looked even better now, dishevelled and more than a bit drunk himself, with his cravat almost entirely loose and his purple silk shirt undone enough to show dark hair at the tip of the vee. 

Oh dear. Dario looked down at the cards he was shuffling, and promptly dropped half the pack. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, bending over to grab them. It had been a long time since his silly teenage messing around with Alvaro. They were grown men now, with responsibilities. He needed to rein in his drunken thoughts. 

“I should do that more often.”

Dario looked up. “Hm?” The look in Alvaro’s eyes made him catch his breath.

“Get you drunk. I should do that more often, if it makes you look at me like you want to eat me.”

Dario’s mind went blank with shock for a second. He shrugged and tried to laugh it off. “It’s not my fault you look edible.”

A strange, tense silence fell. Dario avoided Alvaro’s eyes and delicious looking neck and chest, but found himself watching his hands and wrists with too much intensity instead. 

“It’s been a while, I suppose.” Alvaro’s voice was low and thoughtful. He’d put his hand into his pocket, and Dario was frantically trying to avoid seeing if he was adjusting himself.

“I didn’t even know you were still inclined towards men.” Dario’s voice was suddenly scratchy. He cleared his voice. He’d watched Alvaro parade a number of pretty women around over the years.

“Have you been keeping an eye out?” Alvaro snorted, and didn’t seem to require a response to that. “I got tired of Mama complaining about heirs. At least a reproductively compatible combination calms her down.”

Dario couldn't suppress a grin at the thought of Alvaro frantically trying to keep Aunt Xijema, the Duchess of Badajoz and the speaker of the Cortes Generales, in check. “No heirs yet, though.” 

Alvaro gave him a darkly amused look. “There are ways, as I’m sure you know.” 

Dario swallowed and shifted his hand on his leg. Saw Alvaro’s gaze instantly focus on the motion.

“Mm, yes, that was what we used to say, wasn’t it?” Alvaro’s voice dropped. “Used to say we were just practising, didn’t we? For the future women we would ravish.” He undid another button on his shirt and smoothed his fingers gently down his shirt. Dario’s gaze followed helplessly. “You’ve got yourself a goddess, somehow. I hope you ravish her.”

“She’s quite good at that herself, actually,” Dario replied with about ten per-cent of his brain. The rest had slid sideways into how Khalila might react to this particular tale.

It was difficult to explain. He and Alvaro were first cousins. That in itself wasn’t particularly unusual, he supposed. He knew a fair few cousin marriages. But, still. Close relations shouldn't ignite your loins like this.

(Of course, that helped. Dario had always enjoyed doing things that he shouldn't.)

“Oi, drunkard.” 

Dario blinked back to concentration, and saw Alvaro grinning at him. 

“Come and sit here.” Alvaro patted the sofa next to him. “If you can make it without stumbling. If your lovely wife won’t mind.”

“We have an arrangement,” Dario muttered, half to himself, as he carefully got to his feet. The room shifted a little around him. Nothing he couldn’t cope with. He was much more concerned about the impossibility of hiding his erection from Alvaro while he walked. 

Then he sat down and Alvaro put his hand on his knee and his brain stopped functioning.

“Varo,” he complained, reflexively. 

“Yes?” Alvaro’s hand crept up to his crotch. Dario groaned and leaned his head back against the sofa.

“If you’re going to do that, at least kiss me.”

“If you insist, cousin.” 

Alvaro’s mouth was softer than Dario remembered, and it took them both a moment or two to fit themselves back together again. 

Dario could already feel his mind wanting to relax into submissive fuzziness; he trusted his cousin. But, no, he couldn’t. Alvaro didn’t know what to expect. He had to keep focused. 

So he pulled his mouth away from the soft, endless kiss and started peppering kisses on Alvaro’s face and neck instead. Reached across to put his hand between Alvaro’s legs. Alvaro made an approving noise that shot straight to Dario’s cock.

Dario licked the little hollow of Alvaro’s collarbone. He wanted to move down to Alvaro’s chest, with all that thick dark hair to bury himself in, but that really wouldn’t help his concentration. He rested his head on Alvaro’s shoulder for a moment, then touched the fastenings on Alvaro’s trousers with a questioning sound. 

“Go ahead.” Alvaro slid his hand under Dario’s waistband and started rubbing him lazily over his underwear. The sheer casual deliciousness of it made Dario whine, and he felt himself turning red. “You’re quieter than I remember.”

“Sorry.” Dario licked his lips. “Get your hand off me and maybe I can concentrate, you know?”

“Take my hand  _ off _ ?” Alvaro shifted his shoulder, forcing Dario to raise his head and meet his cousin’s surprised eyes. “Someone’s less selfish than they used to be.”

“Thanks. I can assure you it’s an effort.” Dario looked away from Alvaro and looked instead at the cock he’d just unearthed. 

Big mistake. Big being the operative word. Saliva flooded his mouth and his brain tried to preemptively fling itself into the stratosphere at the thought of cramming that down his throat. 

“Well, that’s a flattering reaction.” Alvaro’s voice brought him back down to earth. Dario realised that he was staring blankly, lips parted. 

Cheeks burning, he ripped his gaze away. His cousin smirked at him. 

“Did it always used to be that big?” Dario couldn’t help but ask. 

Alvaro grinned and shrugged. “I’m sad it doesn’t loom large in your memories.”

“It’s certainly looming large now.” Dario looked at it again and in the space between one drunken blink and the next ended up on his knees in front of it. 

Fuck. He’d had larger, but not by much. 

He looked up at Alvaro. “May I?”

As soon as that came out of his mouth, he wasn’t sure about it. It was a habit from Khalila and his hard-learned lessons on ensuring consent, but it wasn’t the sort of thing he might have said without that context. He knew lots of people viewed asking like that as a drag, a turn-off, a spoiler of spontaneity and surprise. 

But Alvaro licked his lips and said, “Yes,” in a stunned voice. So, probably he was fine. He smoothed his hand up the shaft for a moment, then stretched his mouth wide and enveloped Alvaro’s magnificent cock. A groan came from his nose out of sheer satisfaction. 

He bobbed away in silence for a few minutes, selfishly luxuriating in the warmth and weight and stretch in his mouth, keeping Alvaro’s cock shallow so that he could feel precum start to build in the back of his throat then pull back to lick at it. 

Counter to what he might have expected, the languid, indulgent sucking gave him some of his control back. He was just having fun, for himself, and although part of him still ached badly for Alvaro to at least put a hand in his hair, he could stay out of a submissive mindset without too much difficulty down here.

In thinking that, he became aware that he was being selfish and Alvaro was being remarkably quiet about that, so he reluctantly emptied his mouth and looked up at his cousin. 

“All right, Varo?” Almost without thinking, he stroked Alvaro’s shaft. Just to keep it close. 

“I’ve got blue balls, you fucking tease,” Alvaro retorted. There was no heat in his voice; he looked lazy and relaxed despite his arousal. 

Dario grinned. “Do you? Aw.” He stroked Alvaro’s balls gently. “Well, I’m having fun, anyway.” He licked the head of Alvaro’s cock like a lollipop. Alvaro let out a breath. 

“Put it back in your mouth, already.” The tone was almost pleading. Dario seriously considered starting some proper teasing, but it seemed like far too much effort so he happily obeyed. To be nice, he pushed Alvaro’s cock a little further down this time, into his throat. Squeezing for Alvaro, breathing restriction for him. Everybody wins. 

Alvaro reacted by finally putting his hands gently, cautiously, onto Dario’s hair and shoulder. Dario let out a satisfied noise and shoved himself even deeper. He looked up at Alvaro and tried to show his gratitude through his eyes. 

Maybe he succeeded, because Alvaro smiled and tightened his grip just a little. 

Dario sighed and relaxed. 

Time passed in a contented daze, until the sound of the door opening broke Dario’s concentration with a deluge of icy horror. 

Just because he and Alvaro had no moral objections to fooling around didn’t mean everyone did.

In a panic, he tried to get to his feet, only to realise anew just how drunk he was as the world swayed around him and he failed at rising above his knees. 

Oh shit, oh shit, oh  _ shit _ . 

He was vaguely aware of Alvaro fumbling with his trousers. Then both Alvaro and the newcomer spoke almost at once:

“Oh God, now I really do feel like I’ve gone back in time.”

“How degenerate of you, cousins.” That was King Ramon. 

Hearing Ramon’s voice really didn’t help Dario’s mind settle. He still couldn’t figure out what to do; should he stand? Sit back down? Brush it off? Ramon’s tone of voice was far too bland to interpret. 

He slumped against the sofa and looked beseechingly up at Alvaro. But there was no help from that quarter; Alvaro’s hands were clenched into fists even though he was smiling at Ramon. 

Of course there was no help. Alvaro wasn’t in charge of him, Alvaro had no concept of it. 

Dario wished Khalila was here. 

That wasn’t helpful either. 

So he sucked in a breath and pasted a dazzling grin to his face and aimed his careless words out like weapons;

“Monchi! Come to join the party?”

Ramon rolled his eyes. “You’re so drunk you can’t even stand and somehow you’re still an insolent little shit.”

Dario relaxed. That didn't sound like Ramon was about to call the guards and have them hauled off for unacceptable behaviour. 

“It’s my natural state of being,” he retorted. “And I  _ can _ stand, thank you.” He got his elbow onto the sofa for leverage, but subsided with relief when Ramon gestured him down. 

He found himself giving Ramon a once-over. The king always looked handsome, of course, with the very best wardrobe to choose from, but it was the signs of the late hour that attracted Dario’s eye the most. The tailcoat and white gloves long abandoned somewhere, revealing the unbuttoned cuffs of his fine shirt, the creases in its elbows, the almost undone white bowtie. His patent leather shoes were a little scuffed.

Rumpled Ramon was unexpectedly appealing. 

“You’re taller from down here,” Dario blurted, which, while monumentally stupid, still seemed safer than “You look fuckable.” 

Ramon ignored him completely and looked at Alvaro. 

'So what did I miss?' 

Alvaro opened his mouth and closed it again. He seemed scared still. Dario looked at Alvaro's crotch, flies messily fastened. He was only half-hard now. What a waste.

Ramon smiled. It was sharp. 'Because I think I have _deja vu_. Am I right?' 

A little confidence seemed to return to Alvaro; he squared his shoulders and nodded. 

'Broadly, yes.' 

Dario knew exactly what they were talking about. Three days after Dario's fifteenth birthday, he'd been nervously but enthusiastically sucking Alvaro off when Ramon had walked in on them, just like today. 

Back then, the future king had been extravagantly disgusted and blackmailed them both with the act for several months before seeming to lose interest. Dario could still remember it all now, though what had terrified his younger self seemed farcical now. 

Too young, too closely related (despite the lack of reproductive risk), and at risk of jeopardising their future heirs by 'setting their preferences too early'. 

None of those old-fashioned, shit-stirring views were on display right now. Ramon surveyed them both with silent, intent focus. Just as Dario was about to risk meeting Ramon’s eyes properly, he turned and walked to a hard little wooden chair at the side. He sat down and spread his legs wide. 

'Well. Don't let me disturb you.'

' _ You've  _ changed your tune,' Alvaro said aggressively, obviously remembering the same teenage panic as Dario. 

Ramon shrugged and slapped his hands onto his knees. 'We've all grown a lot since then.' He was blatantly staring at Alvaro's crotch. "Should've known Dario would end up a cocksucker."

That was possibly supposed to be offensive, but given that Dario wore that label with pride, it did not succeed. 

"I'm very good at it," he said, and puffed up with pride when Alvaro made an agreeing sound. 

Ramon didn't even look at him. "So are you going to let me put you off?" He clasped his hands loosely together, forearms resting on his widespread legs.

(Dario was looking. He couldn't not. Ramon was starting to harden; those trousers hid nothing)

"We're not performing animals, Ramon." Alvaro folded his arms. 

Dario chuckled. Alvaro had clearly not had a very adventurous sex life. 

"Just admit you want to test this mouth out," he said mockingly to Ramon. 

Ramon sat back even further in his chair, a lazy dominant sprawl that nearly broke Dario's brain. "A chance to have you silent and on your knees, cousin? I'll admit I'm intrigued."

Dario got to his feet. The world spun again, and Alvaro had to steady him. 

Ramon's grin grew a wicked edge. "I said on your knees, didn't I?"

Dario dropped back to all fours before he'd even had time to consider the decision. _Does he know what he doing?_ he thought dizzily. Then, as he began to crawl toward his cousin and king, _Oh, does it even matter? _


End file.
